


Amphetamine

by WintersEve



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A Lot of Pouting and Emotional Manipulation, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Baby BatJokes, Bruce is a B(r)at With a Purpose, Canon-Typical Violence, Chance Meetings, Clubbing, Emotional Bruce Wayne, Engineer Jeremiah, Fluff, In which we actually get Jeremiah character development, Inspired By Tumblr, Jealousy, Lots of it, M/M, Minor Character Transformations, Party Boy Bruce, References to Drugs, Seasons 4-5, Secrets, Smut, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Tension, business partnership, free therapy, i know what a rare thing, minor politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-01-16 09:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 66,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18518824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintersEve/pseuds/WintersEve
Summary: What was an innocent, incidental little kiss turned into the catalyst for an absurd, stubborn, heart-wrenching romance that neither Bruce Wayne nor Jeremiah Valeska had ever asked for. After all, Bruce didn't give a damn about anyone, so what made the boy who caught his eye after four drinks any different? Their story is one of late nights, blood stained t-shirts, tears mingling with golden glitter, and words that were forgotten with sunrise. And when Jeremiah gets dragged in to uncover a dangerous plot, he may be exposing more than just Gotham's worst criminals. He stands to lose the two things he values most: Bruce Wayne and his own sanity.~inspired by a post from @countessrivers on tumblr (thank you for letting me use this concept!)~





	1. Kaleidoscope

The strobing lights cut across his vision, blurring everything together in red and yellow light: the flicker of sequins, the gleam of  jewelry, and the bodies pulsing in rhythm with music blaring from every corner of the club. Or maybe it was all just an effect of Bruce’s fourth martini. He laughed along with whatever the boy next to him just said, reaching for his glass. The girl latched onto his arm tightened her grip as he moved, digging her violet talons into his bicep. As the song ended, a new, exhilarating EDM song picked up where the other had left off. Bruce stood up and the girl released him with an exaggerated pout.

“I love this song!” he shouted with a smile, making his way onto the dance floor. Bruce joined the crowd of writhing bodies, twisting and turning to the beat of the music, holding on to whoever came his way and wanted a second of his time. Another girl approached him, the red light reflecting off her silver dress. Bruce gave her a wink and held her waist as she danced against him.

He wasn’t quite sure when she left, but his attention was brought back to the floor when he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and a second grasp his hip. Bruce leaned against the man behind him, allowing his head to fall back on his shoulder as he moved, becoming increasingly more suggestive with the song’s tempo. The hand on his shoulder pushed the sleeve of his black blazer, revealing pale skin covered only by the strap of a black tank top. At his touch, Bruce brought his own hand to his hair, tossing it back as he reveled in the beat. He felt the fingers gripping his hip tighten as he moved. Smirking, he glanced back at the man.

“Are you planning on staying there all night?”

“I wish I could,” he replied with a matching smile. He was surprisingly beautiful, at least, Bruce could tell he was relatively good looking through the blissful haze that’d settled in his head. Sleek red hair, pretty turquoise eyes, and a rather attractive jawline, if Bruce did say so himself. Which he certainly did. Or at least, the alcohol buzzing in his veins did, and that was the loudest voice.

“Who’s stopping you?” he continued to tease.

“Mhm, I suppose my own inhibitions.” Ohh, an intellectual. He could fuck with that.

Twisting in the man’s arms, he said, “Well, tell them to be quiet. I like this part.” Bruce nodded to the speaker as he laid his palms against his chest, trailing his fingers down the dark green suit jacket in front of him. Moving with him, the man placed his hands once more on Bruce’s shoulders, running them down his arms and holding his hands against his body.

Bruce enjoyed the man watching him dance. Tugging his hands from the other man’s grasp, he turned again and pressed his body against his, grinding with the music’s pulse. A finger tugged at the strap of his shirt. Lips brushed against his collarbone. The whisper of breath along his hot skin sent shivers through him. He wanted more. Tilting his head and reaching behind him, he caught a handful of that sinful red hair and pulled, bringing his lips up towards him.

They met eagerly. The man behind him seemed startled by Bruce’s impromptu kiss, but he gracefully sank into it. Bruce took that as permission to deepen it; their tongues clashed as he continued to press his back against his chest, still moving with the racing beat which began to match his own heart rate. His smirk returned against the man’s lips, who’s arm had wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer against him. Twirling strands of silky hair in his fingers, Bruce broke away from the kiss, nipping his lip as the song ended.

“Nice meeting you,” he grinned. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Wait.” The hand around his waist held him in place. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it.”

Apparently, this guy was determined. “Then I’ll ask for it. What’s your name?”

He paused, considering the question for a moment. “Bruce,” he finally submitted.

The other man gave him a curious look upon hearing his answer. “Hm,” was all he had to say.

“You know, it’s rather rude to ask someone’s name without giving your own,” he commented as he flagged down another cocktail waitress.

“Who ever said I was nice?”

Bruce laughed at this. “You’re right, my mistake.”

“It’s Xander, by the way. Xander Wilde.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you some kind of pornstar or something?”

Xander released Bruce as the lady handed him a drink. And no, he had no idea what was in it. It didn’t really matter.

“Goodness, no. I’d be making much more money if I were. Speaking of jobs, I should go rejoin the party,” he said, indicating a table in the far corner of the room crowded with men in expensive suits. “It is for me, after all.”

And with that, he was gone, and Bruce was left in the middle of the dance floor with a hickey on his collarbone and a drink in hand. Just your average Tuesday.


	2. Heavenly Blue

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Oh yes, he was absolutely  _ thrilled _ to be spending what could have been a quiet Tuesday evening in purgatory instead of his own home. The club scene was really just everything he despised about the human race all shoved into a single building because the rest of the world had no desire to see that mess. The sweaty bodies, the shamelessness, and the desperation was palpable no matter where one stood. And although Jeremiah was currently sitting as far from the dance floor (ie: the pit of fire) as possible, he managed to still feel as if he were suffocating.

“Xander!” the man sitting next to him called with a snap of his fingers. He flinched as his attention refocused on his own table.

“Yes?”

His colleague rolled his eyes. “You do realize that we’re here celebrating the opening of  _ your _ plaza, right?”

“It’s not  _ my _ plaza,” Jeremiah responded, straightening his tie. “I simply designed it. Somebody else physically built it. And that lovely man over there,” he indicated the blonde getting wasted at the bar, “paid for it. So really, my role was arguably miniscule.”

“Yes, but…” He didn’t hear the rest of the architect’s sentence. Something had caught his eye. Or rather, someone, dancing with an average looking girl (at best). Someone with waves of dark brown hair, with porcelain skin that shimmered under the lights. Someone with the brightest smile he’d ever seen.

Tossing back a shot of tequila, Jeremiah stood. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Pushing his way through the roiling crowd, he managed to reach the boy just as the girl stumbled away from him. He had his back to Jeremiah, which allowed him to place a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and another more certain one on his waist. He had a feeling that the boy had more liquor in his system than half the patrons in the place, but Jeremiah wasn’t the kind of person to take advantage of that. Not tonight, at least. Not with this one.

The boy leaned against him eagerly. He didn’t even seem to know who was behind him; Jeremiah didn’t think he cared. Soon enough, the music picked up speed and they were dancing along with it. As in, the boy was dancing, twisting, tossing his head, and pressing against him. Jeremiah mostly swayed and moved his head in time, preferring to watch the stunning person turning in his arms, giving him a dazzling smirk.

“Are you planning on staying there all night?”

Maybe if he continued to speak with that deep silky tone.

“I wish I could,” he eventually answered honestly.

“Who’s stopping you?”

_ Valid question. Perhaps my impending sexual assault charge, because I guarantee you’re under eighteen. _

“Mhm, I suppose my own inhibitions.”  _ He doesn’t want to hear you sound like a pretentious old man, Miah. _

The boy let out a soft giggle before fully turning to face him, red lights casting rosy hues on his skin. “Well, tell them to be quiet. I like this part.”

It took Jeremiah a moment to realize he was referring to the music, because he himself rather liked something else. Perhaps. Or perhaps it was simply that shot finally working its way through his system. It was hard to think as those pretty pale fingers toyed with the buttons on his suit. Ignoring the caution signs he’d internally put up earlier, Jeremiah held his hands against his chest until the boy twisted to face the bar once more.

And then he began to move against him harder, far more seductively, and every ounce of self control Jeremiah had regained in the last moment fled him. He pulled at the fabric of the boy’s shirt, running his fingers along his bare shoulder, placing gentle suggestions of kisses at his collar. Suddenly, he was yanked towards the boy by his hair, their lips pressed together hastily in a real kiss that deepened rapidly until he felt a bite at his bottom lip and the boy pulled away, smile still intact.

 

…

_ “Bruce,”  _ the name still stuck with him. It had been over an hour since he’d left the boy on the dance floor and his heart rate had barely calmed. Most medical articles would tell him this was incredibly unhealthy, and a sign of several cardiac-related issues. And every Cosmopolitan article would tell him...never mind. 

“And so what we did was- actually, I’ll let him tell you. Xander!” the man who’d funded this project, Maxwell if he remembered correctly, addressed him.

“Hm?”

“Tell our architect about the trouble we had with the third floor’s structural integrity!”

Under the crimson and golden light, he spotted a head of soft brown waves moving its way towards the exit, another girl on his arm.

“You know the story much better than I do. I’ll have to ask you to excuse me once more.” Without waiting for an answer, he rose from the table again, pursuing the boy, Bruce, with the full knowledge that he had no right to follow him like this.

The pair slipped through the door just as Jeremiah found his way out of the crowd. Cursing under his breath, he pushed through the curtain of beads masking the exit and nodded to the bouncer, looking up and down the street for a trace of him.

_ There _ . He was laughing, holding the door of a cab for the girl. He still had a drink in hand.

Jeremiah watched her reach up and snake her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her. But before he could interject, Bruce rolled his eyes and pulled away from her.

“C’mon Grace, you’re drunk. Go home, get some rest. I’ll meet you tomorrow at Tommy’s, okay?”

“Mhm, bye Brucie!” Bruce shut the door carefully, gesturing to the driver with his glass that he was good to go.

“Careful, they might think you’re stealing,” Jeremiah teased, causing Bruce to whirl around in surprise. He looked at Jeremiah in confusion for a moment, glancing at either side of him. Finally, his eyes landed on his glass.

“Oh. I doubt it, seeing as I own the place.” He swirled the liquid in it before taking a sip, leaning arrogantly against the lamppost.

_ Of course he does _ .

“So if you own the place, you could...theoretically...do whatever you like? Wherever you like?” Jeremiah asked innocently, plucking Bruce’s glass from his hands and emptying it.

“With whoever I like...theoretically.” His blazer had slipped off his shoulder again as he spoke, exposing his flawless skin to the moonlight. Refraining from grabbing him irrationally, he simply asked:

“Like that girl you just sent off? What kind of gentleman puts a drunk girl in a taxi and tells her to talk to him in the morning?”

“The kind that believes in the independence of women,” Bruce answered, slurring the last three words together.

“Or the kind that are just too drunk to realize they fucked up,” he suggested.

The brunette frowned at him, reaching for his empty glass. “I’m not drunk.”

“What’s my name?” he challenged, holding the glass high even though its contents were far gone.

Bruce pushed himself away from the lamppost and tugged on Jeremiah’s collar. He instinctively leaned down, but all Bruce did was pull the glass from his fingers,

Maintaining his grip on Jeremiah, he replied, “Xander Wilde. How could I forget?” Brilliant brown eyes flashed up to meet his as he spoke causing him to momentarily forget how to breathe.

“How indeed...” he murmured.

Laughing, Bruce pulled away from him. “You’re so easy! And strangely persistent.”

“Hold on,” he frowned, trying to catch up with the boy who was slowly backing towards the club. “You have no idea what I want, how could you possibly say that I’m easy?”

All he got was a shrug and, “It’s just that look on your face. It’s so...innocent, I guess.”

Figuring he couldn’t argue with him, Jeremiah changed the subject. “Are you planning on going back inside?”

“Well yes, that was the intention. I’m walking that way, after all.” Even buzzed he was a smartass. Good to know.

“Don’t you think it’s stifling? The noise, the booze, and the crowd?” he asked curiously, stepping towards Bruce.

The boy toyed with the thought a minute. “Nah. I like it. There’s always enough going on that I don’t really have to think about anything else.”

Deciding to bait him into an answer, Jeremiah inquired, “I can’t imagine there are enough dark thoughts in the head of a fourteen year old to warrant such an intoxicating distraction.”

“Seventeen, actually. And you have no idea,” Bruce stated, a serious edge creeping into his tone.

“I feel as though I might, actually.” Thinking of his own past made him incredibly uncomfortable; he realized why Bruce’s tone had taken a turn.

“Great. You wanna sit out here and have a special little talk about our feelings or do you wanna come back inside with me and find the bartender?”

Seeing the look in Bruce’s dark eyes, Jeremiah knew there was only one right answer. “Fine, but I’d better get a discount for showing up with the owner.”

 

…

They did end up talking. About friends, and mistakes, and memories, and heartbreak. About things Jeremiah had never shared with anyone, especially with someone who didn’t even know his real name.

Finally, Bruce made the comment that he’d been dreading.

“Y’know, you look kinda familiar now that I think about it.” Gesturing to his glasses, he said, “Take those off for a second, would you?”

Jeremiah bit his lip. Complying could land him in an awkward, but explainable position. Refusal would just cause Bruce to pull them off him. Besides, if he hadn’t figured it out already, he probably wouldn’t.

He slid the glasses down the bridge of his nose and away from him, taking a moment to adjust to the blurriness.

“Hm,” Bruce analyzed, leaning closer. He traced Jeremiah’s cheekbones with his thumb, which eventually fell to circle his lips. His dark lashes fluttered as he took in every angle of Jeremiah’s face, studying it with somehow sultry precision. “Nope, I can’t place it,” he concluded, leaning back into his own seat.

He caught the boy’s wrist as he pulled away, tugging him closer. Bruce just searched his eyes, almost daring him to do something more.  _ Fuck it, _ Jeremiah decided.  _ I only have so much time before sunrise anyways. _

Jeremiah held Bruce’s jaw gently as he kissed him, feeling a sense of thrill and bliss all at the same time as the brunette wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled himself into Jeremiah’s lap. Taunting him with his tongue, the younger boy explored every inch of his mouth with ease; he could still taste the vanilla vodka he’d watched him down earlier. Their lips melded together perfectly, seemingly made for each other. This kiss was somehow infinitely better than the one they’d shared on the dance floor. Maybe it was from simply getting to know one another a little. Maybe it was just the club’s atmosphere that shifted to something warmer and safer with the change of lights from red to blue, with the dwindling clientele and the lack of cognisance in the ones that remained.

Bruce sighed against his lips before breaking the kiss and murmuring, “You know you’re never going to see me again, right?” 

“Yes,” he answered honestly. “But right now, every second is worth it.”

The boy smiled tiredly, passing Jeremiah’s glass to him. “How romantic. You must be more drunk than me.”

“On the contrary, I feel incredibly awake.”

“Y’know, I’ve never been with a redhead.”

Jeremiah choked on the gin and tonic he’d been sipping.

Laughing, Bruce dabbed the alcohol from Jeremiah’s lip, lifting it to his own. “I’m kidding.”

“Well...that’s a-that’s a relief, I mean-”

“I’ve been with plenty of redheads.”

He lightly smacked Bruce’s arm. “Stop it, now I know you’re messing with me.”

“But it’s so much fun!” the boy teased, placing a kiss on his neck.

“Certainly. For now. Just wait until I make the mistake of taking you seriously.”

“Oh? What would happen then?” Bruce asked, a coy expression on his face.

“Well, first,” Jeremiah began, caressing the side of his copa glass. “I’d push you back against this couch.”

“Intriguing, go on.”

His confidence growing, he continued, “And then I’d kiss you until your lips bled and draw pretty red marks along that graceful neck of yours.”

“Mhm, next?”

“Next I’d...well, I’m not sure the rest of the club’s patrons would really like to see what I’d do next.”

“They wouldn’t be able to stop themselves,” Bruce breathed, exhilaration exalted with every draw of air. “Tell me.”

“I’d pin your wrists up and tease my way down your throat, to your chest, pressing kisses to your stomach, and-”

Bruce practically tore Jeremiah’s glass from his hands and threw it upon the tabletop. Then he presented his wrists to him with a raised eyebrow. “Prove it.”

“We’re in the middle of the club, I’m not-”

“They’re all too wasted to care. Besides, it’s last call soon. I think. Point is, don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I  _ never _ make promises that I can’t keep,” Jeremiah said softly.

“Then prove it.”

And so, Jeremiah did just that. Gathering both of Bruce’s wrists in his hand, he used the other to push him roughly back against the black leather. His lips and teeth found their mark on Bruce’s neck, eliciting quiet moans and a rapid increase in breath. Opening the boy’s jacket, he pulled his black shirt up, swirling patterns into Bruce’s pale skin with his fingertips as his lips moved down his throat, placed a kiss on his collarbone over the hickey he’d made earlier, and past the dark fabric, landing in the middle of his exposed chest. Bruce panted and writhed under his touch as Jeremiah’s body grated against his own with his movement. Eventually, he released the brunette’s wrists only to have him coil his fingers in Jeremiah’s hair, tugging him back up to meet his lips.

Suddenly, a voice behind them let out a slight cough. The pair sprung apart, Jeremiah going so far as to rush to the opposite end of the couch.

The bartender looked down at them, her casual expression making it clear this wasn’t a new occurrence for her. “Hate to interrupt, but uh, we’re closin’.”

“Really?” Bruce asked in surprise, collected as ever. “What time is it?”

“Four o'clock,” she answered, plucking their glasses off the table.

“I guess we were over here longer than I’d thought,” he replied with a charismatic smile.

“No worries. Oh and sir,” she turned to address Jeremiah. “Your party left awhile ago. They told me to give you this, though.” The bartender passed him a rather intricate red envelope. Inside lay a card that simply read:

_ Figured we’d get you a thank-you gift for all your hard work. Thought of writing you a bonus check or something, but then the opportunity just presented itself. After all, you got more out of tonight than any of us it seems. _

_ -Thanks, _

_ Maxwell Lord _

Stapled to the left hand side of the card was the bill for the evening’s food and drinks. Sighing, Jeremiah pulled out his wallet.

Bruce peered over his shoulder to read the contents of the card. He could hear the boy suppressing giggles.

“Oh yes, I’m sure it’s hilarious if you own the place,” Jeremiah muttered, handing the bartender his card.

Reaching across him, Bruce plucked the card from the girl’s hand, replacing it with a wad of bills. “Tonight’s on me. And keep the change.”

“Oh, um, thank you, Mr. Wayne.” She ducked her head and returned to the bar as if she thought Bruce might change his mind.

“Bruce Wayne?” Jeremiah asked in disbelief.

He glanced at him. “Yeah. And?”

_ Oh it’s nothing. I just knew your father well before all of  _ this _ took place and heard stories about things you’d do as a child and now I’ve spent half the evening making out with you in public and I have an odd feeling Thomas wouldn’t want me to design systems for him anymore if he found out which I guess doesn’t matter since he’s dead, but no I shouldn’t say that either. Fuck. _

“Nothing. It’s just, everyone’s heard the stories about brilliant boy billionaire Bruce Wayne but I bet none of them could guess where he was Tuesday night.”

“I guess it’s our little secret,” Bruce smirked, shrugging his jacket back on. “Speaking of, I need to get home before my butler files a missing persons report.”

“Your butler,” Jeremiah muttered, holding the bead curtain back for him

Outside once more, the sky had transitioned from cold black to an inky midnight. He could smell sunrise on the horizon, but it was a ways off yet. Bruce approached a leek black Mustang and clicked a button on his keychain, causing the car’s lights to flash once in response.

“So I suppose this is goodbye then,” Jeremiah stated, almost wishing for a different answer.

“Yeah, I guess so.” But all he got was the one he expected.

“Well, thanks.”

“For what?” Bruce laughed. “For keeping you entertained? Gladly. It’s not like I had other plans.”

Yes, of course the whole night was just convenient for him. Just another wild evening out. Jeremiah wasn’t even sure what else he wanted him to say. Maybe something like,  _ I want to see you again _ or at the very least,  _ Can I get your number? _ would do. But then again, that was just like him. Always waiting for the other person to make a move or say something so Jeremiah wouldn’t have to. And yet, he could never bring himself to be the one to ask. And so he let it go.

“Then, I’ll see you around, Bruce. Or maybe not.” He turned, walking with quick steps away from the sports car.

“Xander?” he heard his pseudonym called, and he’d never loved that one word more.

“Yes?” he asked as he looked back at Bruce.

Tucking a curl behind his ear, he smiled, “I had a good time tonight. Better than I’ve had in awhile, actually.”

His heart involuntarily skipped a beat. “I did too.”

“Good. Now stop waiting around here for me to bring you home or something. I told you already, we won’t see each other again. No use trying to force it.”

Taking a hesitant step back towards Bruce, ignoring his stinging words, he inquired, “May I ask why I couldn’t see you again?”

Bruce tugged the driver’s door open and met his gaze. “Because our worlds don’t collide, you and I. And I’m not into wasting my time with someone who’ll never be able to understand my life, and I’ll never be able to be a part of theirs. Besides, we don’t know each other. Hell, the only reason any of this happened is because I’ll dance with just about anyone with enough shots in me, and you’re just fucking stubborn. So let it go, okay?”

Suppressing everything he wanted to say, Jeremiah simply nodded. “Of course. Goodnight, Bruce.

The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he slipped into his vehicle and silently pulled away from the curb, leaving Jeremiah under the lamppost to watch his tail lights disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are liking this so far! I know it's a little different from what I normally write but I wanted something different, something angsty, and romantic, and painful. Hopefully this fic ends up accomplishing those things. Feel free to leave any comments or criticism, I love each and every one! Thank you for reading!
> 
> ~if you're interested, check out my tumblr @evelynsinkwell for more wayleska and gotham content~


	3. Crystal Tea

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

Shopping with Tommy Elliot was always an  _ experience. _ Not only did the boy have to look at everything, he also had to touch, and try on, and he always had an opinion. So no, he hadn’t really changed since they were kids. Now Bruce just got to punch him more when he acted like a dick.

“Shame Grace couldn’t make it,” Tommy commented, browsing through a selection of expensively simplistic polo shirts.

Bruce shrugged. “She did get pretty wasted last night. I’d have stayed in bed too if you’d have let me.”

“Oh,  _ she _ got wasted? That’s funny coming from the guy who fucked another dude, who was  _ clearly _ older than him by the way, in the middle of the club.”

Rolling his eyes, he retorted, “We didn’t fuck. And besides, why were you watching me? Shouldn’t you have been annoying the hell out of some girl way out of your league by then? We’d already been there for twenty minutes.”

“Just looking out for my dear friend,” Tommy grinned, batting his eyelashes at him.

“Looking to see if I’d moved on from that guy so you could have him, more like.” Bruce walked away from the shirts, instead choosing to peruse the ties. You never knew when you’d need a good tie. And Bruce needed them surprisingly often.

“Hey!” Tommy brushed through the shirts to catch up to him. “You’re the only person in our group who swings that way, dude.”

“I swing whatever way I want if it’s convenient enough. Which one?” Bruce asked, holding up a dark emerald tie and an amethyst one.

“Clearly, based on the one you swung for last night. And green.”

Bruce wasn’t sure why, but the comment irritated him. “What was wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, he just wouldn’t ever look away from you. It was weird.” Tommy leaned over his shoulder to glance at the color-coded array himself. “Do you think yellow is my color?” he asked, twisting a sunny bowtie around his fingers.

“Well we were talking. Of course he was looking at me. I’d be offended if he weren't. And no, yellow is definitely not your color.” 

“You were certainly doing something with your mouths,” Tommy teased, holding the red tie he’d eventually selected.

Making their way to the department store’s checkout counter, Bruce responded rather harshly, “Why won’t you just let it go? It was a one-night thing.”

“Because you aren’t letting it go, Bruce.” Tommy smirked with self-satisfaction as he watched Bruce’s mouth open and close, trying to formulate a response.

“What do you mean?” he muttered.

“You’ve been screwy all morning. Your mind is clearly on something, and there’s only so much going on in your pretty rich boy life.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Bruce snorted, passing his tie to the clerk at the counter. “And I’ve been ‘screwy’ all morning because you had me out until four in the morning and then dragged me out of bed at the crack of dawn to  _ shop _ of all things.”

Tommy paid for his things as well, tossing the tie and a white collared shirt he’d picked from the rack earlier on the counter. “Hey, you agreed yesterday! I was just making sure you followed through.”

“Remind me to order Alfred to bar you from entering my house.”

“He’d gladly listen to that one,” Tommy grinned.

Bags in hand, they left the store and roamed around downtown for awhile, the topic of last night’s fling far forgotten. Bruce had always liked Old Gotham; even after they renovated the shopping district, the gothic architecture remained, enhancing the charm of each place his friend dragged him into. Being able to get out and actually see the city almost forgave the earliness of the hour. Almost.

Finally, Tommy released him from his duty. After dropping him off at his house (city-block penthouse, but that’s irrelevant), Bruce glanced at the clock on his car’s dashboard.  **11:00** , it read. Bruce sighed into a yawn, missing the days when he would get up at five and not bat an eye until two the following morning. Alfred would probably say it was his own fault. Alfred could also back the fuck off his business.

Speaking of Alfred, one might be able to wager a guess who was waiting for him at the kitchen door. Thinking he was being sneaky with his forethought, Bruce had entered through there, hoping to evade his guardian. No such luck.

“And so our little party animal finally returns home,” Alfred greeted him rather pointedly.

“I was here earlier. You just weren’t paying enough attention, apparently,” Bruce shrugged, grabbing an apple off the counter.

“Oh, hungry are you?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, raising the apple. “When’s breakfast?”

“Breakfast,” his butler emphasized, “was at eight thirty. I believe you might recall this as isn’t hasn’t changed in seventeen years.”

“It’s eight thirty somewhere.” Bruce sat himself at the kitchen table, watching Alfred struggle with the statement. Apparently, he couldn’t disagree, as he plucked a pan from the rack hanging above the counter and began to make him eggs.

It was surprisingly nice, sitting there with Alfred just quietly eating their breakfast. It almost felt like things had returned to normal, felt like it had before…

“Hey, Alfred?”

“Yes, Master B?” his guardian looked up from his eggs at him curiously.

“I, uh, was wondering if you could do something for me.” Maybe this was a bad idea.

“I do most things for you, sir, especially recently.” Bruce didn’t miss the poorly disguised salt in his tone.

Pushing his plate away, he stood up. “Forget it.”

“Sit back down, sir. You already brought it up, there’s no satisfaction in wasting your words.”

He reluctantly followed his advice, reseating himself at the table. “I want to visit Wayne Enterprises.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows. “Well you could do that anytime now, couldn’t you?”

“As in, I want to take an active role in my company.”

“Oh?” his butler said with some surprise. “And what’s brought on the sudden interest? If I remember correctly, you gave up on it due to the corruption and attempts on your life. Not to mention the lot got you tied up in all that Court of Owls business.”

“I...it’s my company. I shouldn’t just abandon it…” he trailed off lamely, dancing around the real reason.

Unfortunately he was trying to convince the man who’d known him from birth.

“If that were the case, you wouldn’t have tossed it aside to begin with now, would you?”

Bruce picked up his fork, pushing the remaining food around on his plate. “I want to do something meaningful. And right now, this is all I can think of.”

“If I may ask, where is all this coming from, Master B?”

Standing back up, he grabbed his plate and carried it to the sink. “Nowhere in particular. I’m just bored.”

When he looked back, he saw Alfred’s eyes twinkling in amusement. “Bored with the drinking and the parties and the ‘friends’, are we?” He chuckled at the glare he received. “Certainly, sir. I’ll phone Mr. Fox.”

 

…

Lucius had received Alfred’s phone call and arranged a meeting for them later that afternoon. After telling his butler to wait in the car, watching his order get directly disobeyed, and having to greet every goddamn executive they walked past, Bruce wasn’t in a fantastic mood by the time the elevator dinged at the top floor. Nor was he even slightly on time.

Not bothering to knock, he pushed open the cracked wooden door that led into Lucius’s office. That is, the one he used when he wasn’t in the lab.

The scientist was seated at his desk, glancing up as the door swung open. However, he wasn’t alone in the room. The black chair intended for guests swivelled around as Bruce and Alfred entered, revealing a young man with tidy red hair, dark horn-rimmed glasses, and a green suit that looked vaguely familiar. The man’s eyes widened with shock and his cheeks flushed a pale pink color. And then two things hit Bruce like a ginger psychopath at the circus.

One: This was the man he’d been with at the club last night.

Two: He was almost identical to Jerome Valeska.

How had he not realized it? Thinking back, he’d even thought the man seemed familiar. Was he really drunk or just that incredibly stupid? Bruce was inclined to believe it was the latter if he knew anything about himself.

“Sorry, Bruce,” Lucius apologized, standing up from his desk. “I was just speaking with Mr. V- Wilde while I awaited your arrival. I hadn’t realized we spoke for so long.”

He could sense both Alfred and Lucius looking at him intently, confusion from his butler, and almost guilty concern from Lucius. In fact, the only person trying to look at anything but him was the clone in the desk chair. His eyes were extremely focused on his own hands, as if he found them to be the most fascinating thing in the world.  _ He’s cute when he’s flustered,  _ Bruce registered unconsciously.

“No, it’s us who should apologize for barging straight in here. Not to be even more rude, but may I ask why a nerdier, apologies mate, Jerome Valeska is seated in Wayne Enterprises, Mr. Fox?” Sometimes Bruce forgot how thankful he was for Alfred. It was moments like these that reminded him.

“Mr. Pennyworth, correct?” Xander, or probably not, inquired from his chair.

“Yes, sir,” Alfred confirmed, somewhat taken aback.

“My name is Jeremiah Valeska,” he said as he stood. “I understand your concern. Jerome is my brother. However, I haven’t seen him since we were children and now he’s safely locked up in Arkham.” He finally made eye contact with Bruce, who simply crossed his arms in response. “I’m a freelance engineer, and to avoid situations like these, I typically operate under the pseudonym ‘Xander Wilde’. I’ve done work for Wayne Enterprises on several occasions. If you don’t believe me, for which I wouldn’t blame you, please feel free to consult the records here or…” At this, he glanced away from Bruce almost self-consciously. “Check Thomas Wayne’s personal files.” Gathering up a couple documents from the desk, he hurried towards the door. “I was just discussing one of the company’s latest projects with Lucius. I’ll be on my way now.”

Bruce grabbed his arm as he passed, meeting his turquoise eyes once more. “I’d like to speak with you personally, Mr. Valeska. Please, wait outside for a few moments. I’ll be with you shortly.”

Knowing it would be a mistake to directly refuse Bruce Wayne at his own company, Jeremiah nodded “Of course...sir,” he muttered after a moment of hesitation.

Internally smirking, Bruce sat himself in the chair that the engineer had just vacated and waited as Lucius returned to his own.

“So, all of that aside,” Lucius began, “how are you doing, Bruce?”

This time he did smile. Bruce had always admired Lucius, and he respected him immensely, perhaps even more than Jim Gordon. Lucius was intelligent, dependable, and selfless. This man would help him with anything and not ask for a single favor in return, not even a penny.

“I’m okay,” he stated as honestly as he could. “How have you been?”

“Oh, busy. You know me. Done any rock climbing recently?” he teased innocently, the hint well implied.

“Not recently, no. I’ve been occupied with other hobbies.” Bruce heard Alfred huff behind him. Ignoring the contempt, he continued, “Actually, I asked to meet with you today because I’d like to pick up something else, if you’d let me.”

“And what would that be?” Lucius asked, an eyebrow quirked.

Seeing Jeremiah again had made up his mind. “I want to participate in the workings of Wayne Enterprises. Whatever position you have open that you think I could fill, I’d like to take it. Unpaid, of course.”

“Bruce, you do realize that you  _ own _ the company, right? You can have whatever position you’d like, although most men in your place would simply claim the executive suite and observe from the top of the ladder.”

“Well, I plan on doing that as well. But for a portion of my time here, I want to understand what I own. I need to be on the ground, seeing it for myself. Does that make sense?”

Lucius nodded slowly, a faint smile reaching his eyes. “I think I understand what you’re getting at. I’ll examine our vacant positions and have a place for you by the end of the week.”

“Thank you, Lucius. While I’m here, could you tell me about Jeremiah Valeska?” he added after a second thought.

“Certainly. There’s not much more to tell, to be honest with you. He comes and goes, facilitates projects that the company’s own department isn’t skilled enough to handle, typically through written instruction or proxy, and very rarely he’ll come in here to chat. He seems to enjoy my company, which I suppose is flattering as I get the feeling he doesn’t particularly like people.”

“Yes, that must be very flattering,” Bruce murmured, his thoughts already racing. “Do you know if the executive suite is vacant at the moment by any chance?”

The scientist’s smile widened and he gave him a knowing look that Bruce wasn’t sure he warranted. “As a matter of fact, I believe it is. Your keycard should unlock it just fine, if you feel the need to visit it today.”

“Great, thank you for your time, Lucius. I hope I’ll hear from you soon.” He rose from the chair and walked towards the door, stopping to address Alfred. “Wait for me,” he ordered with an added “please” after his butler’s expectant stare.

Bruce shut the office door with a  _ click _ , immediately noticing the head of fiery hair duck down at his emergence.

“So,  _ Xander _ ,” Bruce drawled, arms crossed once more as he approached Jeremiah Valeska.

The man put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I already explained why I use the name. And besides, it’s your own fault you didn’t realize last night.”

“If you’re so afraid of your identity being revealed, why were you at a club in the middle of the city? That seems a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” Jeremiah started, tiling his head as though he’d never considered the question. “My colleagues already know who I am. The man who insisted on the celebration funded the project and practically dragged me outside against my will. I didn’t really have the option of saying ‘no’. And besides, you’re apparently the only person in the world who can drink as much as you did and still remember every little thing that happened.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said with a smug grin. “I’m good like that. Follow me,” he ordered, starting towards the elevator, trusting that the engineer would simply obey. Luckily, Jeremiah obliged and entered the elevator after a moment of reluctance.

Admittedly, it was a little strange standing there in his company with a man who he’d been all over only twelve hours ago. Jeremiah apparently felt the same way, as he continued to avoid eye contact whenever possible.

“Should I be nervous?” he eventually asked Bruce as the elevator continued to ascend.

“That depends. What are you afraid of?” The tone of his voice was perhaps just slightly more suggestive than he had intended.

“Several things,” Jeremiah muttered, choosing to ignore it. “Clowns and birthday cakes mostly, but I could probably name a few others.”

“I feel like we don’t have enough time for the amount of questions I’d like to ask about that.”

Jeremiah laughed at this, a soft, contained chuckle that was infuriatingly endearing. The elevator announced their arrival to the executive suite with a pleasant chime, sliding its chrome doors open straight into the office.

The room they entered was larger than any other office, and the walls were entirely glass. A grand oak desk sat in the rear of the room, doused in the pale grey light of the city. The surface was dusty, as though it hadn’t been used in a long time. Now that he thought about it, Bruce couldn’t recall seeing anyone besides his father lounging in the leather chair behind it. The image made him nostalgic; trailing his fingertips along the wood, he swirled the dust as he remembered spending days in here as a child, watching the bustling metropolis beneath his feet as his father worked. A photograph of the three of them, his parents arm in arm, smiling as if they’d never been happier, and eleven-year old Bruce standing in front of them still remained. He could even recall the day it was taken.

“You must miss them,” Jeremiah commented gently, breaking the silence.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he responded shortly. Taking one last look at the intimidating executive chair, Bruce instead chose to brave the dust and perched on the desk’s surface. “Have a seat.” He nodded to a chair identical to the one they’d just left in Lucius’ office.

As soon as Jeremiah was seated, he cut to the chase. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Absolutely not.”

That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “Excuse me?”

“I shouldn’t be here. I’ll just tell Lucius to pass the project on to someone else,” he said firmly, meeting Bruce’s gaze.

“I didn’t realize seeing me would upset you so much as to refuse a job. That’s kind of petty, isn’t it?” he pressed.

“You said it yourself, Bruce-”

“I thought you were calling me ‘sir’ now, actually,” he taunted with a grin,

“That was just for the sake of formality in front of your butler. What I’m trying to say is-”

“Oh, so now that we’re alone you don’t have to be formal? I’m still your boss, technically.”

“Not if I quit,” Jeremiah challenged, his voice never increasing in pitch. Bruce decided then and there that his calm composure had to be the first thing he broke. He already knew he was capable of doing it, but it was probably harder when the guy was sober.

“What are you worried I’d be...difficult...to work with?” he asked, biting his lip.

“Incredibly.” Not even a hitch in breath.

“Well luckily for you, it’s an easy job,” he continued, leaning forward a bit as he spoke.

Jeremiah took in his exposed collar and daring expression. “Would you like to brief me on it before I inevitably turn it down or would you just like me to nod and leave now?”

“It’d be rude of you to decline without even seeing what I’m offering you.”

They were clearly having two entirely different conversations, but Bruce was satisfied with knowing he’d peaked the man’s interest, at the very least.

“The course of action with the most consequences in this building is offending Bruce Wayne, so please, elaborate.” Jeremiah shifted back in his own chair, trying to distance the pair.

“Aren’t you concerned about the consequences of going along with me, as well?” he asked, moving his own body forward imperceptibly.

Jeremiah inhaled perhaps more sharply than he had before. They were making progress. “Even more concerned, in fact.”

“Good,” he stated, immediately relaxing his position. “I want you to help me investigate the company. I’ve done a fair amount of investigative work into Wayne Enterprises already, but I was rather young and I know the corporation is still filled with untrustworthy staff. Your knowledge and assistance would be immeasurable in value.” Was that just him, or did he detect a hint of disappointment in the Valeska boy’s expression?

“That’s all?”

“What more do you want?” Bruce feigned confusion.

“You request just seems to be rather below my paygrade. Not to mention it holds no benefit for me,” Jeremiah shrugged arrogantly.

“What sort of benefit are you after? Of course I’ll pay you. Whatever check you’re receiving for the work you do with Lucius, I’ll triple it.”

“I already told you I was going to turn down that job.”

“I don’t understand,” he said honestly. “Why?”

The engineer sighed. “I have two answers. A logistical one and a different one. Which would you like?”

Bruce crossed his legs on the desk. “I’d like both, thank you Mr. Valeska.”

Biting his cheek to keep himself from making a sharp retort, Jeremiah nodded. “The logistical one is because I think you’re planning something which will at least be minorly inconvenient and at most be dangerous, and I’d rather remain uninvolved.”

“Fair, I suppose, though unfounded. The other reason?” He searched the other man’s face in interest, waiting.

His response took a few moments in coming, but Bruce wasn’t prepared for what he told him. “You were the one who made it very clear our lives shouldn’t collide, and yet here you are trying to convince me to not only ignore everything you said last night, but forgive you and work for you. You’re rather selfish, Bruce Wayne.”

Thinking, he smiled. “You’re right.” A flash of surprise crossed Jeremiah’s face. “I am selfish. I’m extremely selfish, in fact. It’s my birthright. But you’re going to not only work  _ with _ me, you’re going to forgive me for being a pretentious jackass.”

“And why would I do that?” he asked, clearly unimpressed.

“Because you won’t be able to stop yourself,” Bruce stated matter-of-factly.

“Hmph,” Jeremiah snorted in disbelief. “You’re mistaken.”

“Oh, really?” Bruce tilted his head to the side. “Then why are you still here? Didn’t you say you’d just decline my offer and leave?”

“I haven’t declined it yet.”

“Then why don’t you go ahead and do that so I can find someone who’s actually qualified to take the position?” Baiting him was actually simple; one just had to insult his pride.

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m your first choice. You want me.”

“You have no idea,” Bruce responded flirtatiously, catching him off guard. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead of reacting like he expected, Jeremiah stared back into his eyes and said:

“Convince me.”

His heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean, ‘convince’ you?”

“I have plenty of money to live comfortably. What are you offering that I couldn’t get from any other job?” Jeremiah’s voice was completely steady; he knew he’d gotten Bruce.

He decided to play along. “Is there something in particular you have in mind since you’re making so many demands?”

“You’re an intelligent man, Bruce.” He leaned closer to him, and removed his glasses as if he were inspecting him with care. “Guess.”

Bruce reached behind him and flipped the photograph facedown, then leaned down to cup Jeremiah’s face in his hands, placing a delicate kiss on his lips. His heart continued to beat rapidly as he pushed his way further into the other man’s mouth, delighted with the way his tongue seemed to remember him, falling back into his kiss with ease. He felt strong hands grip his waist, holding him in place on the desk. As he explored Jeremiah’s mouth, Bruce brought his hands to his hair, twisting the red locks around his fingers. Yes, perhaps he was a bit impulsive. He’d just discovered his current interest was the twin brother of a known serial killer but at the moment, Bruce felt as though he could move past that. After all, Lucius trusted him. So why shouldn’t he?

And besides, he wasn’t really looking for trust. Neither was Jeremiah, according to the way his hands slipped under the hem of Bruce’s dark shirt, choosing instead to hold his body. His fingers ventured their way past his navel, tracing every inch of his stomach as he kissed him. The way Jeremiah moved his hands was incredibly skillful; Bruce began to anticipate his every touch, feeling little shocks of lightning as he brushed his skin.

The soft ding of the elevator had them breaking apart abruptly. A man, secretary by the look of him, stood with his mouth agape, holding a tea tray.

“Mr. Wayne,” he bowed, cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “Your butler requested I bring you this. And said, um, if you take much longer, he’ll, uh, make you jog home.” His eyes darted to Jeremiah as he stuttered.

“Thank you,” Bruce recovered smoothly. “I’ll be done in just a moment. And do me a favor, if you would sir?” The secretary turned as the elevator opened once more. “Keep this a secret.” He nodded quickly in response before stepping back in, the doors shut firmly behind him.

He heard Jeremiah sigh in regret. “Why do people always interrupt us when we’re having such scintillating conversations?”

“I suppose that’s just a consequence of being around me. Someone always wants my attention,” he grinned, hopping off the desk. “Help yourself to the tea. I need to catch Alfred before he leaves; he meant what he said about making me run.”

“God forbid the human body exercises,” Jeremiah smiled lightly. “Go on then.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Bruce looked back at him over his shoulder as he called the elevator. “Please?”

“Fine,” he huffed in defeat.

“Great, I’ll see you here in three days, same time.” He heard another chime and entered the elevator, pressing the down button. Jeremiah watched him go, giving him a slight wave before the doors shut completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this one! I'm writing some characters I've never had the chance to use before, so please forgive me if they seem somewhat less fluid! I drew a tiny bit on the Dark Knight trilogy for some of this, I'm sure you can figure out where. Thank you all for reading!


	4. Sugar Lumps

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Sitting at his desk, Jeremiah massaged his temple. The documents he’d collected from Lucius yesterday glared at him from the wooden surface. They were exhausting. Maybe he truly should have denied the project. Although, he knew that a week ago, he wouldn’t have even thought of passing up the opportunity to oversee the construction of a new bridge connecting Upper Gotham Proper and the mainland- it was a major advancement for the city and somehow had yet to be done. But he couldn’t concentrate.

With a sigh, he stood and refilled his glass of rum. A beep from the doorway’s keypad alerted him to his assistant’s entrance.

“Ecco. What is it?” he said, greeting the stoic blonde holding a cell phone.

“Phone call for you Mr. Valeska,” was all she responded, passing him the device.

He took it in surprise. Employers rarely contacted his home office as it was three floors below ground level and he had no one to whom he would make personal calls. “Wait here, please,” he asked as she went to leave.

“Hello?” Jeremiah asked almost apprehensively.

“You’re an unexpectedly difficult man to contact,” a playful voice responded.

A pause of silence as Jeremiah tried to puzzle out who was calling him. “Bruce?” he eventually guessed. The boy on the other line gave him a hum of confirmation. He motioned for Ecco to leave, which she followed immediately. “How did you get this number?”

“You have no idea the amount of files I’ve dug through. It’s like you don’t exist.”

“Well yes,” he said, taking a swig of his drink. “That’s sort of the point.”

“Are you busy?” Bruce changed the topic abruptly.

Glancing at the files on his desk, he answered, “It depends. Is there something you need me to do for the company?”

“Yes, I need you to escort someone very important to a disclosed location. Make sure you keep a low profile.”

Jeremiah’s confusion only deepened. “Alright. May I ask who? Or why?”

“Certainly. You’re escorting me. To dinner and a show. I’ll send you the address. Meet me in an hour.”

“Bruce, wait, I don’t think-” he was cut off by the buzz of a dead line.

He tossed the phone on the desk and drained the rest of his glass. Forget it. Why should he go? That pretentious, entitled Wayne kid didn’t have a right to order him around like that. Besides, he shouldn’t even have his number. He should learn to leave him alone. It’s only been two days for goodness sake. Jeremiah smiled to himself, imagining the look on Bruce’s face if he didn’t show up.

 

...

And so he pulled up to a warmly lit section of downtown, near the club where they’d ran into each other two nights ago. Jeremiah didn’t see Bruce, so he waited in his car and observed the people hustle along the street. Downtown was always a peculiar mix of characters around this hour. The evening was early enough for businessmen and store-goers to be around, packing up for the night. But those of the nightlife began to emerge at this hour as well, and one could always see a father pulling his wife and child close to him as he crossed the street, avoiding the gaze of men and women who owned the shadows, seeking to claim their bit of asphalt until dawn flushed them out again. The way in which Gotham maintained this cycle day by day was another subject of his fascination entirely.

Twenty minutes passed and there was still no sign of Bruce.  _ Imagine that, Miah,  _ he thought sarcastically.  _ This is some sort of cosmic “fuck you” for contemplating blowing him off earlier. _ Sometimes his subconscious dialogue was utterly juvenile. He was well aware that there was no divine power sending him karma for his previous notions. Probably.

Another ten minutes went by. He was just deciding that he’d been played when a dark matte Mustang slid into place with ease along the curb behind his own car. Flashy rich kids. Although, he couldn’t help but admire the modifications that had been made to the vehicle. Jeremiah caught Bruce’s eye in his rearview mirror. The dark-haired teen made a deliberate beckoning motion with his finger. What, did he think he was his personal valet or something?

Apparently that’s exactly what he thought, as he waited for Jeremiah to open the driver’s door for him. Stepping out, Bruce acted as if he were perfectly punctual and brushed past him without a word towards the entrance to...wherever he was being dragged to now.

“Not even a single utterance in apology for your tardiness?”

Bruce glanced back at him innocently. “Just making sure you really wanted to see me.”

“Fortunately for you, I’m just a good person,” he muttered, following him into the building.

Inside was a warmly lit restaurant. The atmosphere was gentle and inviting, and Jeremiah felt almost at ease with the setting. But as a he glanced forward towards Bruce, he saw that the brunette was still strutting down the hall, past the tables and kitchen to a nondescript wooden door. Puzzled, he followed him.

“What’s back here?” he inquired, watching as Bruce folded a hundred dollar bill several times and pushed it through the keyhole. 

“Our entertainment for the evening,” Bruce responded as if it had been obvious.

Before Jeremiah could express his apparent ignorance, the door opened a crack. The green eye of a man scrutinized the pair then thrust the door open widely, allowing them admittance.

Where Bruce found this place, he could only imagine. The grand, circular room was doused in violet light. An elegant stage dominated the far side of the room upon which danced all forms of strippers: male, female, and anything in between, as well as pole dancers, and even performers reminiscent of burlesque. Jeremiah’s eyes involuntarily wandered to the skimpily dressed men serving drinks to small, comfortable tables strewn about the place. Bruce followed his gaze, then flashed him a smug grin.

“Shall we sit?”

“You know, when you said ‘dinner and a show’, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Jeremiah muttered. His smile only growing, Bruce led him to a round table close to the stage. They sat, Bruce rather eagerly and Jeremiah with far greater reluctance. He felt incredibly out of place. His self-consciousness only became clearer with the coming of a waiter to their table.

“Good evening, gentleman,” the dark haired man greeted them. Eyes settling on Jeremiah, he asked, “First time with us?”

The only thing to do was let out a warm chuckle. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not really,” the waiter said, tugging at the loose tie that stood as a poor replacement for a shirt. “I’ve just never seen Mr. Wayne here with company quite...like you.” The man’s gaze fell from Jeremiah’s face to his body before snapping back up to meet his eyes. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck to paint his cheeks.

“Yes, he’s darling isn’t he,” Bruce drawled. “Could we order now?”

A laugh resounded from the waiter. “Of course, Mr. Wayne. Your usual drink?”

“Make that two.”

“One moment, what’s in it?” Jeremiah asked, suddenly fearful for his liver, if Bruce’s alcohol tolerance was anything to go by.

The brunette waved a nonchalant hand, turning his attention to the dancers. “Oh, this and that. You’ll like it, trust me.”

In fact, he didn’t trust him in the slightest. But the waiter had already snatched the cocktail menu from him and Bruce’s attention had shifted before he caught the combination of apprehension and annoyance written across Jeremiah’s face.

“If my gathering of evidence is sufficient enough, I can conclude that you frequent this location, correct?” Jeremiah asked, doing his best to make small talk even when surrounded by a startling amount of exposed skin.

Bruce nodded. Still he didn’t turn to look at him. “Mhm. We come here when we want something a little less tame,” he responded. Jeremiah assumed he meant less tame than the club down the street.

Picking at the black tablecloth, he continued, “Then why ask me to come when you typically bring your friends? I can’t be nearly as exciting of company.”

Shrugging, Bruce answered, “Didn’t feel like seeing them.”

So he was just a body to fill the empty space that Bruce was terrified of having next to him. Jeremiah supposed it made sense. The boy seemed to thrive on attention. There was nothing fun in going to such places alone.

Jeremiah continued to avoid watching the dancers, feeling guilty whenever he accidentally caught one of their eyes. Soon, their drinks were brought to them. Bruce pressed a bill into the hand of their waiter and downed his in a single gulp. Okay, if he could do that in one sip, it couldn’t be that bad. Watching Bruce set his glass down, he took a tentative drink of his own.

Choking. That’s all he could do for the next minute. Bruce’s attention was finally on him, but so was half the room’s. Needless to say, it wasn’t worth it. When he finally regained control of his throat, Bruce was laughing harder than he’d ever seen him.

“What…what  _ is _ that?” Jeremiah eventually asked, breathing rapidly.

“C’mon, Miah, it’s just rum.”

Shaking his head, “No, no, absolutely not. That’s not rum. I had rum earlier. It didn’t attempt to strangle my esophagus.”

Giggling, Bruce responded, “It’s sunset rum. It might be a tad bit stronger than you’re used to.” The superiority in his tone was infuriating. Steeling himself, Jeremiah picked up the glass once more. He threw back the drink as quickly as possible, not even giving it time to settle on his tongue. Yes, he concluded, it did indeed still burn.

“Aw, there’s no need to prove yourself to me,” Bruce smirked, settling back on the dancers. Jeremiah couldn’t keep avoiding them. He finally allowed himself to appraise their glittering outfits, gyrating hips, hair tossing in every direction, The strength of the alcohol seemed to be working its magic quickly, as he grew less and less uncomfortable with his setting. Soon, he began to watch the dancers who roamed into the crowd, offering various services. One of the girls, a blonde who’d been eyeing the brunette beside him all night, slunk her way off the stage towards their table.

“You seem to be enjoyin’ our show,” she purred, placing a fake-tanned finger on Bruce’s lapel. 

Bruce raised an eyebrow, taking a sip from his second drink. “Oh, I always do.” 

“You want one up close an’ personal, sugar?”

“Nah, I’m good. But,” he added over her indignation, “I think he does.” Bruce gestured in his direction, mischief gleaming in his eyes.

Reactions a bit slow at this point, he simply observed as the girl turned to him, laying a hand on his shoulder and another on his thigh. Catching up to the situation he said, “You’re right, I’d love one.” She squeezed his leg flirtatiously. “Just not from you.” He sought Bruce’s eyes as he spoke, making sure he conveyed his message clearly.

“Oh?” she huffed, hands on her hips. “Who then? Let me fetch them for you, sugar.” Her voice dripped with honeyed venom.

Nodding to Bruce, he stated, “Him.”

“ _ Him? _ ” she repeated incredulously, but Jeremiah wasn’t watching her. He was watching the beautiful, surprised boy behind her. Watching the booze-induced tint of pink on his pale cheeks spread. Watching as he bit his bottom lip at Jeremiah’s words. Watching as he stood and nudged her aside.

“You want a dance from me?” Bruce murmured, gazing at him through those dark lashes.

He met the intensity gathering in the brunette’s eyes. “More than anything.”

Jeremiah’s heated statement seemed to trigger something in Bruce. He swept his suit jacket off his shoulders and tossed it carelessly on the chair behind him. Opening the top three buttons of his black shirt, he settled himself slowly and deliberately on Jeremiah’s lap. Bruce found the beat of the music and began to move with it, rolling his hips and twisting Jeremiah’s tie around his fingers. Heart beating rapidly, Jeremiah gripped Bruce’s hips, hooking his own fingers in the loops of his jeans. Keeping ahold of his tie, he slid seductively down his legs. Bruce’s daring eyes never left his own. He gave a firm tug on the cloth between his fingers, yanking Jeremiah forward. As he moved, Bruce moved with him, leaning in just close enough to tease him before pulling away, releasing the fabric abruptly. 

He trailed his fingers along his thighs, pushing them apart and pulling his body up between them. A knee wedged between his legs and the other straddling him, Bruce ground heavily against him, watching in satisfaction as Jeremiah’s eyes widened and he stifled a moan. He reached around and grabbed a handful of red hair, tugging roughly as he continued to grind his hips. All Jeremiah could think was that he wanted more.

Reaching for Bruce’s collar, he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt with unsteady hands. Pale porcelain skin was now exposed under the violet lights. The image did nothing to satiate his growing lust, nor did Bruce giving another hard yank to his head, jerking it back against the chair. A felt a warm tongue swipe at a strip of his exposed neck before teeth settled into the soft flesh. Gasping, Jeremiah tightened his grip on Bruce’s waist, pressing his hips closer against his body. His tongue and teeth worked at his throat before dragging themselves up, first against his jaw, and then finally colliding with his lips. He could feel the brunette’s rapid, shallow breaths that matched the rate of his own. The hand in his hair tensed as Bruce suddenly broke the kiss, and then the weight on his body was gone.

Jeremiah sat up and brushed his thumb across his lips. Bruce was buttoning up his shirt, fingers moving nimbly although he could see them trembling.

“Bruce, what are you-?”

“I should go,” he replied shortly, already maneuvering his way towards the exit. Jeremiah quickly dug in his pocket for money to cover their drinks, but as he found a fifty, he realized one already sat on the table. Weaving through crowds of people and chairs, he chased after Bruce. He finally caught him as the door to the first room clicked shut.

“Let go of me,” Bruce said through gritted teeth, trying to pull his wrist out of Jeremiah’s grasp. The street was fully dark now, and a soft drizzle had broken through the barrier of clouds encasing the city, surrounding them with a hazy orange glow from the streetlights.

“I’ll let you go when you explain to me what just happened.”

“It’s late, Jeremiah, I need to get home,” Bruce sighed, refusing to meet his gaze.

Glancing at his watch, he responded, “It’s midnight. You have time.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me. You’re not my boyfriend.” Bruce laughed sharply as if the idea was absurd.

“You’re correct, I’m not. Which is why you owe me an explanation.” Jeremiah was beginning to feel a dull pounding in his temple.

“An explanation for what, exactly? For giving you a lap dance? You asked for it. I was just doing what I was told.”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “Please, Bruce. You only do what you’re told when it suits you. Even I can see that.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, a flash of something almost like hurt crossed Bruce’s face. “You don’t know me. Stop pretending like you do.”

“I want to know you, can’t you see that?” he shouted in frustration. “And clearly, some part of you wants to know me too, or you wouldn’t do the things you do.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t? Actually, I think I would make exactly the same decisions, whether I wanted to know you or not. Ever consider that maybe I’m just an attention whore and you’re an easy target?” Bruce was talking to the brick wall now, only his profile visible to Jeremiah. 

Reaching up to stroke his cheek, he said gently, “Yes, I’d considered it. But I don’t believe that. Do you?”

Bruce swept Jeremiah’s hand away. “Don’t touch me.” He brushed past him with finality, only stopping when his hand was on the handle of his car door. “Don’t bother showing up tomorrow, either. Have a good night, Jeremiah.” Mirroring his actions of the other night, Bruce got in the car and left without another word, the lights from his vehicle dimmed by the orange mist.

“Have a good night, Bruce,” he murmured to the empty street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, this is my first time writing a lap dance. So if it's horrendous, I'm sorry! But I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S.) I'm still trying to process the fact that yesterday was the final episode of Gotham. The final episode. The last one. It's been a wild ride. I'm so thankful that I was able to be a part of one of the most wonderful and supportive fanbases around. Let's not let it die too quickly, alright?


	5. Amber Window Pane

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

Waking up felt like shit. In fact, he decided right then and there that he wasn’t going to wake up ever again. Except he had to. Because in order to fall back asleep, one had to wake up first. It was a vicious cycle.

Bruce liked being asleep. Sure, the dreams continued to torment him. But at least he knew they weren’t real. Weeks had passed before he came to see they couldn’t rip his heart and mind to shreds, though, and the tossing and turning hadn’t ceased. Now he could just disassociate. He was becoming good at that.

Speaking of disassociation, his alarm clocked blared once more, reminding him that the afternoon was slipping away. Groaning, he sat up, catching a glimpse of his disheveled hair and bare torso in the mirror opposite his bed. Something seemed wrong. Bruises littered his sides. Where had those come from?

An image of violet light and red hair filled his mind. An unwanted answer. Bruce chose to ignore it. Soon, a knock would come at his door. A masked plea for him to wake. It happened every day. Alfred had grown averse to Bruce’s temper. He didn’t blame him. But the thought just deepened his self-pity. What a waste of time.

_ Knock, knock. _ Two raps of knuckles on wood. Predictable. Yet he counted on them.

“I’m coming!” he shouted through the door, voice hoarse. Whatever he’d said to  _ him _ , that rum burnt like hell. And the never ending booze being forced down his throat night after night was finally starting to show its true colors. Whatever.

He contemplated just throwing on the clothes strewn about his bedroom floor but thought better of it; however hard he tried to distance himself from the name, he was still Bruce Wayne. So, he resigned himself to a dark turtleneck sweater and matching jeans. And regardless, he needed to look decent today. Didn’t he? A quick glance at the calendar suspended below his mirror informed him that he was supposed to be at his company. Why, again? Oh. Right. But, he’d told him not to come. Which meant Bruce could just crawl back into bed and surrender himself to nightmares once more. Surrender himself to the memory of driving that dagger into Ra’s al Ghul’s flesh in a blind, selfish, pitiful flash of rage? Yeah. Not likely.

There must be something for him to do at Wayne Enterprises. If there wasn’t, he’d make something. It was  _ his _ company. They’d figure it out for him.  _ No, Bruce, _ a disappointed voice nagged at the back of his mind,  _ you need to start figuring things out for yourself. You can only feel sorry for yourself for so long.  _ Oh really? Watch him hold out a little longer. He hated that voice. It sounded like...well...Forget it.

“Ah, there you are Master Bruce. I was beginning to think you’d only told me you were awake to get me off your case. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all,” Alfred greeted him as he trudged down the stairs.

“Do you ever shut up?” he shot back, tired of the ceaseless lecturing and backhanded comments.

“Yes. Typically when you say things to me for which I have no response to. Or when you say things that haven’t  _ earned  _ a response.” His butler laid a plate of toast on the kitchen table. 

“If you’re trying to prove a point, you’re doing a rather poor job. Bring that up to the study; I have something I need to do.”

“Or you could use your hands, Master B, that’s what they’re made for.”

“That’s what butlers are made for,” he responded breezily, taking the stairs back up.

Funnily enough, the toast never did make it up to the study. That was fine. Bruce had long since forgotten about eating. The files in his hands left no room in his head for such unnecessary things. Doing this, he felt twelve years old all over again. He hated that feeling. But he missed it too. The sense of purpose. Of freedom and a world blooming with possibilities. And innocence. Naivety. He’d never get those feelings back. But perhaps, as he sat behind the grand oak desk, just as he had five years ago, he could try.

His eyes started to wander, the lines blurring together. Bruce knew what he was looking for, but it wasn’t easy. Minutes ticked by into hours. Glancing at the clock on the desk, he realized how late it was getting. If he was going to drive to Wayne Enterprises and be there on time, he needed to go now. Making a split second decision, he dashed down the stairs and pulled his keys from the hook, hurrying into the garage.

 

**…**

Why had he decided to come? Bruce found he was asking himself that question a lot lately. And yet, no matter which direction he turned, every option seemed like a mistake. These were the thoughts racing through his head, turning him into a jumbled, distracted mess as he sat on the desk in his father’s-  _ no, his _ office. At least, until he heard the elevator ding.

And out stepped the most beautiful conundrum who had ever had the nerve to waltz into his life. He hated him. He hated so many things these days. Of course he hadn’t expected him to be here. But a part of him must have. After all, Bruce had come. Those turquoise eyes, usually so anxious, met his steadily. Jeremiah didn’t sit.

“I told you not to come.”

“And yet,  _ you’re _ here.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I knew you would be.”

“Did you miss me that much?” Disassociate.

“Maybe.”

“I didn’t miss you.” _Make him hurt._

“Maybe.”

“I’m not good for you.” _Make yourself hurt._

“Maybe.” _Stop saying that._

“You hate the way I make you feel.”

“No.” Liar.

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, I hate the way you make me feel.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what else you know.” _Tell me what I don’t know. What I can’t know._

“You’re hurt.”

“Maybe.” Yes.

“You’ve forgotten yourself.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’m trying to forget.” _Is it working?_

“It’s not working.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t let me help you.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Who am I?” _Why do I keep asking him this?_

“I don’t know. You keep trying to tell me but you never tell the truth.” How could he, when Bruce Wayne was destroyed the moment he turned away from his only rule?

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t want to know. And neither do I.”

“Bruce.” He hated the way his name sounded in the other man’s mouth. The way he said it softly, carefully, as if he were afraid of it shattering. “You know who you are. Don’t you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Knowing  _ exactly  _ who you are. And who you want to be.”

“Jeremiah.” He hated the way  _ his _ name sounded in his own mouth. The way he said it harshly, bitterly, disbelievingly. Bruce hoped he hated it too. “I’ve never known who I am. Only who I want to be. And it’s suffocating me. It always has.”

“Then breathe, Bruce.” He said it again. Like he knew. “Breathe again. Draw air into your lungs and remember. Remember what you’re running from. Stop running. Catch your breath. You can’t suffocate when you breathe.”

He was standing close to him now. But not so close. Not as close as he had. Bruce missed it. The feeling of his closeness. He was shattering. “Teach me how to breathe again.” He was close enough to catch him as he cried. Close enough to draw him against his body as the tears fell silently, raindrops seeping in through the broken window panes. Close enough for him to bury his head, hide his shame in the security of his shoulder. But not too close.


	6. Lithium Scabs

****

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

An explanation for why he had come to Wayne Enterprises today was perhaps the one thing he couldn’t give. After all, the only instruction he was given was to stay away. Not to mention Bruce Wayne owed him nothing. They barely knew each other. Everything between them was physical and purely incidental. So why on earth was he standing here, in the executive suite of Wayne Enterprises, holding a man in his arms who was clearly falling apart? This wasn’t Jeremiah’s place. His place was in the building’s basement, clutching blueprints in his hands and ignoring other engineers who thought their ideas were superior. Pressing Bruce Wayne to his chest as tears fell on his lapel? Not even close.

Fortunately enough, or perhaps unfortunately, Bruce soon pulled away. The brunette wouldn’t meet his eyes. He just simply turned around and sat on the desk like nothing happened. Why did he always do that? Was he embarrassed? Was Jeremiah allowed to tell him he didn’t have to be?

“Well, since you’re here,” Bruce began after clearing his throat. “We might as well discuss what I’d originally wanted us to.”

Jeremiah took a seat opposite him, choosing to go along with Bruce’s decision to ignore what had just happened. “And that would be?”

“Someone in my company is sending money to Sofia Falcone, and I need to know who.”

“Sofia Falcone? Didn’t she just return to Gotham to conduct some charity organization for her father? Why would a member of Wayne Enterprises want to pay her off?”

The tears had disappeared from Bruce’s eyes as suddenly and silently as they’d come; in fact, his eyes were clearer and more determined than Jeremiah had ever seen them. “Someone doesn’t want Penguin in power any longer. They’re funding her rise in the criminal underworld because they know her father refused. Or at least, this is what I think has transpired.”

“But, that seems a little too simple, don’t you think? Wayne Enterprises is a massive company, certainly, and I doubt anyone but you would look into a few million dollars missing. However-”

“It’s not just money. You’re right. If it were, I wouldn’t be investigating it. But essential pieces of our laboratory’s equipment have been stolen, along with some of the company’s more under-the-radar technology.”

“And you’re sure it’s connected to Miss Falcone?” Jeremiah wasn’t trying to incessantly question Bruce; he just didn’t quite understand.

“I…” Bruce fiddled with the collar of his shirt as he struggled to frame a sentence. “The evidence I’ve gathered allows me to place a substantial amount of suspicion on her, but I have one more possible suspect if Sofia, is not, in fact, the culprit. In which case I’ll write her a lovely apology letter and donate more money to her newly founded orphanage.”

“Well, this is all incredibly fascinating, and I’ve never been part of a secret operation, but why ask me to assist you?” He had to admit, the thought of becoming involved with a criminal investigation was somewhat thrilling, albeit a bit nerve wracking.

The boy on the desk tilted his head curiously to the side, as if he thought Jeremiah should already know the answer. “Why do you think I’m asking you?”

“Because I’m the only person you know who isn’t involved deeply enough in the company to care about the loss of an employee?” That was the only logical explanation.

Bruce shook his head, but a soft smile graced his features. Softer than Jeremiah was used to. “Incorrect. But, I’d like you to think about it if you’re ever bored. And I’d be interested to hear what other conclusions you come to.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he replied, returning his smile. “Is that...all you need from me today?” Jeremiah received an expectant look from Bruce, dark eyebrows raised. “What?”

“You’re asking your boss to dismiss you, Jeremiah! And so far, you’re doing so rather rudely. Try again.”

He turned back towards the elevator. “You’re insufferable. I’m leaving now.”

“Come on,” Bruce chided. “Just once. You’ve already said it before.”

“Absolutely not. I refuse to address a seventeen year old as my superior ever again.”

“Oh?” he asked, sounding as though he were now standing behind him. Jeremiah felt Bruce’s arms drape around his shoulders, hands clasped at the base of his neck. “Are you trying to say I should address  _ you _ as  _ my _ superior simply because you’re older?”

“Technically speaking,” he began, not fully trusting his voice. “That would be correct in most formal settings, yes.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Valeska,” Bruce teased, breath dancing against his skin. His hands tightened around Jeremiah as he leaned in closer, whispering, “Is that better,  _ sir? _ ” 

Jeremiah shrugged Bruce off of him and hurried towards the elevator once more, wanting to escape as soon as possible. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he muttered as he hastily pressed the down button.

“Whoever said I wanted to see you tomorrow?” Bruce retorted, although laughter was escaping from him.

“Well, you somehow managed to track down my phone number so I suppose you can just call me whenever you decide you want to see me again, because that’s how it works, right? We all just base our schedules around whenever Bruce Wayne needs us to be available?” he responded perhaps too sharply as the chrome doors slid open.

“Wait, Jeremiah,” Bruce called, slipping in front of him to hold the doors open. Those dark eyes, always difficult to read, searched his as he asked, “Are you mad at me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Jeremiah answered honestly.

The brunette’s lips quirked into another smile to replace the one that had just fallen. “If you decide you are, I don’t blame you. Although I  _ did  _ tell you I’d be difficult to work with. But I just want us to say goodbye  _ once _ without you being angry with me. Okay? Just for today.”

“And who’s fault is that?” he pushed, curious how badly Bruce wanted the day to end on a happy note.

Apparently, very badly. “My fault. Entirely. I take full responsibility. Can you forgive me?” Bruce blinked up at him through his full lashes, appeasing smile still in place. “Please?”

Jeremiah sighed. He could never win against him. The engineer simply didn’t have it in him to say no. “Yes. Fine. I forgive you. Now, let me in the elevator.”

Bruce just leaned against the doors, arms crossed. “Don’t I get a kiss?”

“No. You always get prickly when I kiss you,” he grumbled.

“Is this you trying to teach me to control my temper?”

“If I were, would it work?”

“Hm,” Bruce thought before placing a quick, delicate kiss on his cheek. “I guess we’ll see.” He pushed Jeremiah into the elevator before backing into the office.

“That defeats the purpose, Bruce,” he informed him in exasperation through the closing doors. The boy just winked, retreating back towards the desk until the elevator shut, blocking Jeremiah’s view. Sighing, he massaged his temple. He didn’t understand the billionaire’s moodswings, but for some reason, he doubted that Bruce understood them either.

 

…

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

Crying was a mistake. Bruce always felt so weak and pitiful when he shed a tear. But he couldn’t help it. Jeremiah had looked at him with so much  _ trust, _ so much utter faith in him. His gentle gaze had broken something inside of Bruce that he hadn’t even known he’d built up. But feeling that break terrified him. He’d built it to protect himself, to shut out everything he feared and everyone he knew could hurt him. So maybe letting that barrier collapse around him was dangerous. But in keeping the engineer around, did he really have a choice? Besides, how could Bruce  _ know _ that Jeremiah was trustworthy? He was trying so hard to forget that he was Jerome Valeska’s brother, but the pair sharing a face made that rather difficult sometimes. The fact of the matter was, Jerome was insane. And a serial murderer. And he’d tried to kill Bruce twice. So of course he was going to be suspicious of his twin brother just casually trying to stick by his side. Or maybe Jeremiah wasn’t trying at all and Bruce was just fucking paranoid. God, when did it all get so complicated?

An urgent ringing came from his pocket, startling Bruce out of his reverie. He pulled his phone out; it was Tommy. Bruce debated if the call was worth answering. Honestly, he wasn’t in the mood, but he knew the brat would give him hell about ignoring his call later.

“Hey, Tommy. What’s up?”

“Damn, someone’s mind must be busy. Usually you greet me with something more like ‘What can I do for you, select male friend of mine?’. You know, more douchebag-y.”

“I have a life and I’m allowed to greet you however I please. What do you need?” Tommy loved to talk on the phone. So, Bruce always tried his best to cut their conversations as short as possible.

“Not much. Just tryin’ to figure out why you suddenly don’t want to hang out with us anymore.” The boy tried to come off as nonchalant but he wasn’t doing a very convincing job.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’ve been doing stuff for my company. It’s nothing personal, Your Highness.”

“Oh, doing stuff for your company?” Tommy repeated, unconvinced. “So Wayne Enterprises is renting out strippers now, huh?”

“What can I say, I enjoyed my Friday night. Sue me. Why’s it any of your business?”

“It’s not really. Just wondering why you haven’t tossed that nerd out like an incompetent maid.”

“He’s grown on me,” Bruce replied impatiently. “Look, do you have anything actually important you want to talk about? Because if not, I’ve got stuff to do.”

“More ‘company’ stuff?” Tommy prodded.

“You know, Tommy,” Bruce started, a form of revenge coming to mind. “You’re always so interested in my love life. Especially when a guy is involved. It almost makes me wonder if…”

“This has been a great conversation, Bruce!” Tommy spoke over him hastily. “Keep your gay shit out of my uncle’s nightclub. Or at least, keep your shirt on next time so I don’t get another fucking lecture.”

“My shirt was on almost the entire time. Your uncle just couldn’t handle it.”

“Yeah, your fucking collarbones probably cut through the sofa or something and that’s why he’s pissed.”

Bruce laughed. “Leave my collarbones alone. I can’t help my anatomy.”

“But you  _ can  _ help your sluttiness.”

“Hey. It’s not slutty if I’m only pursuing one person.” Wait, was he even pursuing Jeremiah? Was that happening? Bruce didn’t agree to that.

Unfortunately, Tommy asked the same question. “So you’re really chasing after that one, huh?” Maybe there was a chance the boy didn’t know about Jeremiah’s true identity. He  _ was _ wasted that night, after all.

“No. Perhaps. I don’t know. No. I’m not.”

“See all of your words say no, but the last seventy-two hours say a giant hell yes. You need to work on your lying skills, Bruce. We’ve talked about this.”

“Okay, thanks for the advice. Bye, Tommy!”

“Ouch. Cuttin’ me off after only three minutes in your company. When are we gonna get to see you next?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe.” Then, Bruce remembered he’d agreed to meet Jeremiah tomorrow. “Actually, maybe Sunday.”

“You know we have church events all day on Sundays.”

“Oh right, your family does that. Then, Monday, I guess.”

“Wow, three more days without Bruce Wayne. Whatever am I going to do?”

Bruce shook his head at Tommy’s mocking. “You’ll get over it. I’ll see you in a couple of days. Say hi to Grace for me if you see her. On second thought, don’t do that. She’ll think I’m flirting with her. Don’t say hi. Just tell her I’m gay and deeply committed.”

“Trust me, after Tuesday, everyone knows you’re gay, honey.”

“At least I didn’t just call my only male friend ‘honey’.”

“I have other male friends,” Tommy replied indignantly.

“Great, go backhandedly flirt with them. I really do have things I should be doing.”

“Fine, fine. See ya, Bruce.”

“Bye.” Bruce snapped his phone shut and tossed it on his father’s desk. Apparently a three-day break from Tommy Elliot did  _ not _ raise his resistance to the guy’s knack for wearing him out. 

He stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows and gazed out over Gotham. From the top of Wayne Tower he could see the entirety of Old Gotham, as well as the surrounding Luxury districts. The rooftops of the other skyscrapers were easily visible, as their height paled in comparison to that of his own building. Almost directly below him stood Gotham International Bank. Birds populated the concrete roof. Crows. He could see their beaks clicking as they cawed, their dark intelligent eyes staring back into his. Unsettled, but curious, Bruce observed them for awhile longer. The flock didn’t move for almost twenty minutes, and when they did, they took flight as one. Northwest towards the river, Arkham, and the mainland. On the wind, the crows disappeared into the gathering dusk.

 

…

Bruce watched Grace toss back another shot of golden tequila. Good for her, he supposed. She always swore it was a little too smokey for her tastes, but three fruity cocktails of whatever the hell she decided to throw in ‘em seemed to negate that. Wayne Manor was packed full of people he barely knew, but he didn’t really care to know either. Their bodies filled the space with warmth and life and that’s what mattered.

After he’d left Wayne Enterprises earlier, Tommy had given him another call asking him to find a space for them to party. And if someone was asking for a spot that wasn’t one of their regular clubs, it meant they wanted somewhere they could fuck. So, since Bruce didn’t have parents and had the largest house in Gotham, all his friends decided his place was the obvious choice. Whatever. Alfred was easy enough to kick out and it wasn’t like he had anything else going on. As long as they kept it away from his bed, he didn’t really care.

Besides, all of Bruce’s thoughts and fragments of memories he’d tried so hard to suppress were starting to become painfully clear. And a part of him blamed...well, the point of tonight was to forget his name. At least for awhile. 

Tommy passed him another drink before plopping himself onto the sofa to his right. Grace was seated to his left, but she was a bit preoccupied with entertaining one of the boys Bruce didn’t recognize.

“Not a bad turnout,” Tommy commented.

“Yeah. It’s fine.” Bruce took a sip of the drink. Vodka and lemonade? Something like that.

“Why are you always in such a shitty mood lately?”

“I’m not in a shitty mood. Why do you always ask so many goddamn questions?”

“Because you never give any fucking answers. It’s not my fault that you can’t get over your own ego. News flash, Bruce: you’re not better than the rest of us,” Tommy spat.  _ Okay, so we’re being aggressive now. _

“Maybe I’m not, but at least I don’t need to surround myself with dozens of strangers to feel validated.” The liquid in his glass sloshed as his hands shook slightly.

“Oh really? Then what do you call this?” Tommy barked with cynical laughter.

“Giving you a place to pull your stupid stunts so your parents won’t kick you out. You’re welcome, by the way.”

The boy’s dark eyebrows raised. “I have nothing to thank you for. We’ve done everything for you. Where would you be these past few months without us?”

“Probably in better company.” He wasn’t sure why they were having this ridiculous fight here and now, but it was too late; he’d already started shit and he’d be damned if he didn’t finish it.

“Go on, then. Go find yourself some friends who won’t call you what you really are: an orphaned freak.”

“Take it back.”

He was on his feet now. People were starting to glance over at them curiously. Bruce could only assume he’d raised his voice, but he couldn’t hear much past the rushing of blood in his ears.

“Like that’s going to make it all better? Bet you wish you could take back that night in the alley too. I bet there’s a lot of things you wish you could take back, but you can’t. And I won’t.” Tommy had reached into his pocket as he spoke, pulling out a small box.

“You know, I don’t think your family physician thought you’d be swirling those in your whiskey when he prescribed them for your ADHD,” Bruce said quietly.

The boy glanced at the white amphetamine pills in his palm. “Stop being such a pussy, Bruce. They’re not gonna kill me.”

“Pity.” Bruce turned away, ready to silence the music and kick everyone out. He’d had enough.

A hand clenched tightly around his wrist. “What did you say?” Tommy said slowly, dangerously. He’d risen to his feet as well.

“Nothing. Don’t worry your delicate little head about it. All that thinking might give you a migraine, and then you’d need to start mixing Xanax into your drinks too. Wonder what sort of cocktail you could make with that.”

Partygoers were definitely staring now. Grace had placed an arm in front of the guy who’d been all over her, stopping him from getting involved.

Tommy’s grip on him tightened as he swung his other fist around. Bruce flinched back, dodging the hit. He retaliated, knuckles colliding with Tommy’s nose. A satisfying crunch. The boy clutched his nose as it bled, yelling, “You’re such a little bitch!”

“Funny,” Bruce taunted, “this reminds me of a time about four years ago. There was this asshole who thought making fun of a kid who just lost his parents would make him so fucking popular. How does it feel to have your nose broken again?”

Tommy spat blood on his cheek. “Fuck you, Bruce.”

“You always wanted to, didn’t you?” he replied just as cruelly. “Sorry, I’m not into cowards.”

His accusation sent Tommy into a blind rage; he threw his fists about wildly, grabbing for any part of Bruce he could. He got ahold of Bruce’s hair and slammed his head down onto the table. The glasses shook and shattered. Stars blossomed across his vision. His skull felt like it was on fire.

“Take it back,” Tommy hissed in his ear.

“Thomas Elliot, let him go!” Grace practically screamed.

“Not until he takes it back,” Tommy shouted in return. The grating sound of his voice in Bruce’s ear caused a dull pain to erupt in his head.

“Didn’t you just say I couldn’t?” Bruce managed to mutter through the haze. His cheek was pressed down harder, digging into the broken glass.

“It’s not worth it, Tommy! C’mon, just leave it.”

The hand in his hair gave a sharp yank, pulling him up from the table. Bruce twisted around, pulling out of his grasp and shoved Tommy.

“Get out,” he said, breathing heavily. Most of the other teenagers had already scattered after they saw the fight break out; too terrified of what their socialite parents would do if they got involved. Or, that’s what he assumed. His head hurt too much to think.

Grace placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Bruce shrugged her off. “You too. Both of you. Out.”

“But, Bruce, I didn’t-”

Tommy cut her off, already getting ready to play the victim. “Grace, it’s not your fault. We should go before he has another episode. Come on, I’ll drive you home.” Blood still dripped from his nose, staining his face and shirt collar crimson.

“He’s in bad shape. Bruce, can you hear me?”

She sounded distant, but he knew what she said. He nodded. “Leave,” he mumbled.

“We should take him to the hospital.”

“No.” Tommy argued firmly. “If we take him, I’ll get in trouble. Besides, I’m the one with a broken nose.”

Their conversation was growing more and more distant.

“Bruce,” Grace whispered gently. “Is there someone we can call?”

He pointed vaguely at the desk where he kept Alfred’s phone number pinned, rubbing his temple. His fingertips felt wet. The sounds of Grace’s steps, Tommy’s impatient foot-tapping, and her speaking quietly and urgently filled his head. She told him she’d called and someone was coming. Bruce gave another nod in response.

The pair retreated from the study. He could make out Grace looking anxiously over her shoulder as she left, Tommy urging her along.

Dizziness filled his head like a fog. Bruce collapsed. The hardwood floor felt cool against his cheek. He closed his eyes and allowed Ra’s name and blood to fill his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky that number was sitting on Bruce's desk...
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, as well as a little more insight into what Bruce's life looks like right now. As always, I appreciate every kudos, comment, and criticism. Thanks for reading!


	7. Glass Powder

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

A  _ beep _ sounded from the door. “Ecco, I’m rather busy right now,” was all he said, back to the entrance. He’d been poring over the list of names Bruce had given him, trying to draw any connections from his own observations.

“Bruce Wayne is calling.”

This got his attention. He whirled around and took the phone she’d extended to him. “What could he want at this hour?”

“I advise you ask him that, sir.” Ecco’s face was usually blank, void of emotion, but even she seemed somewhat intrigued.

Jeremiah flipped the phone open, saying, “It’s a little late, Bruce, don’t you th-”

A girl’s voice interrupted him. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr…” she trailed off as if she were reading something, “...Wilde, but-”

“Who are you? Why are you calling me?” Perhaps he sounded a bit paranoid but no one should have this number besides Wayne Enterprises and Bruce.

“My name is Grace Blomdhal. I’m a friend of Bruce’s. I’m sorry, I’m calling from his phone because honestly I don’t even know where mine is.”

For some reason, her statement made him even more anxious. Why would a friend of Bruce’s be calling him? 

“What’s happened?”

“He got in a fight with another friend of ours. Bruce hit his head pretty hard but our friend won’t stick around or drive him to the hospital; he’s afraid of what his parents might do if they found out. Bruce told me to call you.”

Stupid, arrogant, hormonal teenagers. “I understand. Where is he?” 

“Wayne Manor. We were hanging out in the study when it happened. Can you be here soon?”

Jeremiah glanced at the clock hanging above his blueprints. It was already 12:21. Wayne Manor was at least twenty minutes away from his bunker. “Of course. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He hung up the phone, not caring for the girl’s reply.

“Should I start the car, Mr. Valeska?” Keys dangled from Ecco’s fingers.

“No, I’ll go alone.”

She handed them to him and unlocked the door. “Very well. I’ll keep the lights running until your return.” They walked to the end of the hall together, and when they reached the base of the stairs, she inquired, “May I ask why you’d drop everything for Bruce Wayne?”

“No. You may not. Don’t wait for me.”

Jeremiah didn’t miss the small sigh that escaped her as he rapidly ascended the metal steps. He owed her more of an explanation, he knew that, but now just wasn’t the best time. Clicking a small button inlaid on the silver key, he could hear the concrete platform behind the ground floor entrance slide open. A light flicked on, revealing the hidden garage. The cars lights flashed with another click, and soon enough he was racing out of the woods where his bunker resided at twice the legal speed limit.

Which he realized, after flickering blue and red lights pulled up behind him, was perhaps a mistake. Muttering under his breath, he pulled the Infiniti over and preemptively rolled down his window. A disgruntled cop sidled up to the door. A quick lookover told Jeremiah all he needed to know: he was a detective, most likely put on patrol duty as punishment for something. Already in quite the mood.

“Evening. License and registration,” the detective drawled, hand outstretched.

Fuck. His wallet was on the desk by the files back in the bunker. Why was he so idiotic?

“My sincerest apologies, officer,” Jeremiah began, pulling the registration from the glove compartment. “I’m in a bit of a rush, and I left my license at home. My friend is injured and I was trying to get there rather quickly. I understand you aren’t looking for excuses, but-”

The detective rolled his eyes; he’d clearly heard this story before. But Jeremiah wasn’t lying. “No license means I need to take you in. Name and date of birth?”

“Please, sir, my friend needs help.”

“Who’s your friend?”

Giving him a fake name would only make his situation worse. “Bruce Wayne.” 

“Yeah, and I’m the president,” the cop snorted skeptically. “Come on, exit the vehicle. Name and date of birth.”

“Xander Wilde. ‘98. Please, Detective...” he scanned the officer’s uniform, “...Alvarez. I’d be more than happy to file with the GCPD, but I truly need to be somewhere.”

“You sure do, buddy. Down at the precinct. You think I can’t tell who you are, Jerome? Let’s go.”

“No, sir, you don’t understand. Jerome is my-” The car door was yanked open and Alvarez hauled Jeremiah out, cutting him off. “Wait. Please, Bruce needs-” Jeremiah’s breath hitched as his head was hit on the edge of the police cruiser, the detective shoving him into the backseat.

“Shut up, Jerome. You can tell the detectives all about how much Bruce Wayne needs you when we get to the precinct. And for the record, a combover doesn’t work for you.”

Jeremiah resigned himself to the fact that Alvarez wouldn’t hear another word of protest, and spent the ride envisioning all of the possible ways Bruce could be bleeding out on the floor.

 

**…**

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

_ A dark chamber appeared, surrounding him. Dim torchlight flickered at the edges of his vision, flames licking at his mind, their sinister sparks burning his soul. Shadows loomed from every direction, filling gaps in the stone arches. Watching him. _

_ In front of Bruce stood a man. A man with dark skin, bright eyes, and a timelessness about him like Bruce had never felt. This man...he  _ despised _ this man. And feared him, perhaps more than anyone else. _

_ Cold metal. Between his hands, Bruce was grasping a long, elegant dagger. The sight of it sickened him. _

_ The man...Ra’s al Ghul, paced impatiently. His footsteps echoed around the chamber. “This...may be hard for you to understand. But I have walked this earth for centuries, waiting...for you, Bruce. Only you can kill me. And only with that dagger. That is my curse. That is the meaning of my vision.” _

_ Ra’s was standing in front of him now. Bruce’s eyes were forced from the dagger, forced to meet that gaze that saw right through him. _

_ “I don’t believe you.” _

_ “Believe me,” Ra’s hissed. _

_ Bruce shook his head, wanting to deny it all. “This is just another manipulation.” _

_ A hand extended, gesturing towards the pool. “See,” he whispered. “Look.” _

_ Contained in the ripples was a grotesque reflection of the man before him. Bruce hoped it would never escape. _

_ “My true form.” _

_ He glanced between the corpse in the water and the flesh and blood before him, not wanting to believe a word of it. _

_ “Every moment of my life is agony.” Ra’s’ eyes met his again, this time pleading. “End my suffering.” _

_His begging made Bruce inexplicably more infuriated. “Whatever your curse is...you_ deserve it _for what you’ve done,” he spat._

_ “You’re angry, Bruce. I understand. But unless you strike me down with that blade, you will never be free-” _

_ “No!” Bruce shouted. “I won’t.” He wouldn’t kill. He swore. Never. He turned away, desperately scanning for the exit. _

_“Then allow me to tell you what will happen if you_ don’t _kill me.” His words stopped Bruce dead in his tracks. “I will disappear. And let you live your life. You will follow the path of_ light _.” The way he said the word, it seemed to disgust him. “Grow into a fine man, become a husband. A father. There may be a day when you forget I ever existed.” Bruce looked back in time to watch Ra’s pleasant expression fall, replaced with one of unsettling malice. “But then I will return,” he growled. “And I will kill everyone you love. Just as you watched your parents die, just as you watched me slice your friend’s throat.” His hot, sinister breath fell against Bruce’s ear, forcing his words through his mind, painting a gruesome, terrifying picture. “I will slaughter your children before your very eyes, and there’d be_ nothing _you could do about it.” A force took hold of him._ _Without truly registering the fact, Bruce whirled around and plunged the dagger through Ra’s’ heart. The man screamed as Bruce tore it out of his flesh and shoved it in again, relishing the death of the man who’d caused him so much pain._

_ A seam appeared to split in Ra’s, a crack opening to release his spirit. Bruce could only watch as he decayed before his eyes, scarlet drops falling from the silver blade onto the corpse that looked as if it had been there for centuries. _

 

**…**

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Silence settled over the GCPD like the hush of a funeral procession as he was hauled inside. Alvarez’s grip on his forearm was that of a viper’s: digging into his flesh, unforgiving. Instead of focusing on the cops all gazing at him with unbridled hatred, Jeremiah chose instead to take in the medieval architecture of the precinct. He’d never been before. Unlike his brother, he didn’t have a second home here.

From the balcony office emerged a man Jeremiah knew. A man everyone in Gotham knew. But James Gordon looked much more haggard than the papers portrayed him. Dark circles were pulled taut under the detective’s eyes as he squinted at Jeremiah from above. The other officers watched him with bated breath.

“He’s not Jerome,” James declared tiredly. Walking down the staircase, he stood in front of Jeremiah, wary nonetheless. “But the question is: If you’re not Jerome, who are you?”

Outstretching a hand as a peace offering, he replied, “My name is  _ Jeremiah _ Valeska. That’s the name my mother gave me. And however much I wish he weren’t, Jerome is my brother. And I’m afraid your officer’s mix up,” he gestured to Alvarez, “may be putting Bruce Wayne in danger.”

James shook his hand firmly, blue eyes searching his. “What happened to Bruce, Mr. Valeska?”

“I was told he got in a fight and hit his head. I was on my way to check on him, admittedly perhaps a little too quickly, when I was pulled over. I was more than cooperative, but I understand that my face most likely alarmed your detective. I don’t blame him, I’d just like to get to Wayne Manor.”

“I’ll check on him myself,” James decided. “You could understand if we’re a bit uneasy with the thought of sending you there alone. What’s your connection to Bruce?”

What an excellent question. Jeremiah didn’t have a coherent answer to match. “We’re partners. Business partners, that is. I’m an engineer, employed by Wayne Enterprises.”

“And one out of hundreds of engineers for his company just happened to be Bruce’s emergency contact?” James asked, collecting his jacket and badge from a nearby desk.

Also another incredibly valid question. “It would seem that way, I suppose. I don’t think he’s on great terms with his butler at the moment. I was most likely the last person he called, so I assume that’s why Bruce’s friend contacted me instead. Could we go now, detective?”

“You’re not coming.”

Jeremiah moved to stand in front of the detective, blocking his path. “I’m most certainly coming, detective. Bruce is expecting  _ me.  _ I don’t know what sort of state he’s in. Please.”

James looked around, almost as if he were asking the empty space within the precinct for answers. “Fine. I don’t have the time to waste arguing with you. Let’s go.”

 

**…**

The car ride wasn’t excellent for conversation. Detective Gordon drove even faster than he had, but of course, cops could do that. He was incessantly questioned about every aspect of his life: his upbringing, how he’d escaped, everything he knew about Jerome. All of these inquiries were easy enough to answer. He’d grown up in the circus. His uncle had absconded with him in the middle of the night at his mother’s request and enrolled him in St. Ignatius. Jerome was a madman and always had been. But then James began asking questions about Bruce.

“How did you meet Bruce?” James asked as they crossed the bridge into midtown.

Jeremiah knew enough about the detective to know lying to him would only land him in more trouble than his name did. “I was at a nightclub with some coworkers of mine, celebrating the opening of a new plaza we’d been working on for a little over a year. I’d already been doing some freelance work for Wayne Enterprises at that time. It just so happened that Bruce owned the club we were hosting the celebration in. We had a...small conversation, and the next day, he invited me to work on a project for the company.”

Yes, he was omitting certain...events. They weren’t pertinent to Gordon’s understanding of their relationship. Although, to be fair, Jeremiah didn’t really have an understanding of their relationship, either.

His explanation seemed to suffice. James nodded, and continued, “Did he seem a little reckless to you? Trying to get himself into trouble?”

Yes. Reckless, drunk half the time, and horny. Again, details the detective didn’t need.

“Perhaps a bit, yes. I’ve gathered that he has a lot on his plate right now. I think he’s trying to process something, but I haven’t pressed him for details concerning what. I figured he’d tell me when he’s ready.”

“He’d tell an engineer who also happens to be Jerome Valeska’s twin brother?” Shit. James was skeptical once more. He’d revealed too much.

“We’re friends, I suppose you could say. Speaking of that, how could you tell I wasn’t Jerome?”

The detective glanced at him, not quite ready to drop the subject. “Besides the obvious clue that Jerome’s face is currently stitched in place, you don’t have any of the same mannerisms. No offense, but you carry a lot of nervous energy that I’ve never seen Jerome have about him. Also I don’t think Jerome would ever wear that suit.”

No, he wasn’t offended. A little perplexed, maybe. What was wrong with his suit? “That’s rather observant of you, especially seeing as you realized all that within the span of ten seconds.”

“I’m a detective: it’s sort of my job to pick up on these things.”

They were in uptown now; Jeremiah could make out the lights of the bridge that would connect them to Bristor County. Silence settled over the vehicle. Apparently James had run out of questions.

When Wayne Manor loomed before them in the distance, Jeremiah couldn’t help but urge the car faster in his head. Bruce had already been waiting for so long. Was he even conscious? Did he know that Jeremiah was coming? Were his friends still there or had they left?

The driveway was empty of other vehicles, so he assumed that Bruce was alone. Before James had fully parked the car, Jeremiah was already out the door, hurrying up the grand stone steps to the front entrance. Until he was in the foyer and realized he had absolutely no idea where to go in the labyrinth of rooms. Luckily, James knew his way around. Once the detective caught up to Jeremiah, he led them up an oak staircase, up and up four stories until a wide hall opened in front of them. Hopefully, once Bruce was okay, he’d give him a tour someday; the house was incredible in design.

But that wasn’t important right now. What was important was the fact that the hall had come to an end. Over James’ shoulder, Jeremiah could see a huddle of dark hair and dark clothing on the wooden floor panels. Pushing past the detective, he kneeled by Bruce. Small cuts dotted his cheek and a rapidly bruising gash decorated his forehead. The brunette’s eyelids flickered, but they didn’t open. His breathing was fast and shallow; it appeared as if he were dreaming. Or having a nightmare.

James was looking over him, carefully examining Bruce’s wounds from above. “Detective, do you know where they keep the first aid supplies?” Jeremiah spoke quickly.

“Uh, yeah, I think so. I’ll check in the restroom and grab a towel. Try and wake him up. It usually takes more than a hit to knock Bruce out.” 

“Bruce,” Jeremiah whispered once they were alone. “Can you hear me?” His eyes continued to move under their lids, but still, he didn’t wake. “Bruce,” he said again, not bothering to keep his voice hushed anymore. “I need you to wake up. Detective Gordon is here. Bruce, please.” Jeremiah rolled him onto his back and pulled a pillow from the sofa to elevate his legs with. This was about the extent of his first aid knowledge for unconscious people.

A large gasp for air came from Bruce as if he’d been drowning. Squinting, he opened his eyes slowly. Confusion filled his features when he noticed Jeremiah leaning over him.

“Miah?” he murmured. “What are you doing here?”

Relief flooded him. “Your friend contacted me and told me you were hurt in a fight.”

“I told Grace to call Alfred,” Bruce muttered, still squinting against the warm lamplight. “This would be a silly thing to bother you about. She must have read the wrong number.” He tried to sit up, but immediately fell back against the floor. “Remind me to kick Thomas Elliot in the stomach next time I see him.”

“Speaking of which, what happened?”

“I wasn’t really in a partying mood, which pissed him off. And then he made a comment about my parents, which was funny seeing as last time he did that, I broke his nose. So I broke his nose again.” As Bruce spoke, he played with strands of Jeremiah’s hair, twisting them between his fingers.

“I’m going to assume he didn’t take too kindly to having his nose broken a second time.”

“No, interestingly enough. He grabbed me by the hair,” he yanked on the red hair in his hands as he spoke, “and slammed my head down on the table. You might be able to imagine this, but it hurt like hell.”

“Yes,” Jeremiah responded, trying to free his hair from Bruce’s grasp. “I can imagine. You have glass in your cheek.”

“Where?” Bruce asked. His fingers fell from Jeremiah’s hair to his hand and laid it against his cheek.

“I found some bandages and antiseptic-”

Jeremiah could only imagine the picture the pair painted for James to walk in on. At least they weren’t kissing this time. At the  _ very  _ least. Still, Jeremiah unthreaded his fingers from Bruce’s and sat up, doing his best to act like nothing had happened. Why did that brat have to make every two minutes hard to explain? Even when he was injured, he still had the nerve to pull stunts like that.

Getting to his feet, he said, “Wonderful, detective. If you could apply them, I’m going to contact Bruce’s butler. I’m sure he’d like to know what happened.”

“Jeremiah, don’t you dare call Alfred.” Bruce struggled to pull himself into a sitting position. “It’s just a stupid cut. I only passed out because…” he glanced at James, and then at the bottles and glasses, which hadn’t escaped the detective’s notice.

“Because you’ve been drinking,” James finished for him.

“But your original intention was to call Alfred,” Jeremiah pointed out.

“Well, yes, but now both you and Jim are here. That’s plenty of help. Besides, I’m fine now. Just a little lightheaded. Please, detective,” he turned instead to appeal to James, “it’d be foolish to worry him over nothing. He’ll be back in the morning, I’m sure. I’d be more than happy to tell him all about it then.” Bruce began gathering glasses in his arms; perhaps cleaning was a nervous habit of his. “Really, I’m sorry that both of you were dragged out here for nothing. If you’ll just leave that,” he nodded to the first aid supplies in James’ arms, “on the table, you can be on your way.”

James looked Bruce over in concern. “You’re sure you’re alright? I could send over a doctor-”

“Really, detective, I’m fine. I appreciate your concern, but it’s not worth all this fuss.”

“Alright,” James sighed in resignation. “But try and lay off the booze. I get it,” he began, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “After what happened with Ra’s-”

“Thank you, Jim,” Bruce interrupted. “I’ll consider your request. It’s late now, I’m sure you’d like to clock out.”

“Bruce, you’re going to have to talk about it sometime.”

Jeremiah felt like an intruder on their conversation. He turned away from the pair, knowing it would be too conspicuous to simply leave the room. He busied his hands flipping through the pages of some book lying on the desk.

“I know that. But now isn’t the right time. Thank you for everything, Jim. Drive safely.”

Another sigh came from the detective. “I guess Jeremiah and I will be on our way then. Mr. Valeska, we’ve been dismissed.”

“Actually, I’d prefer if Mr. Valeska remained here.” Jeremiah glanced up from the book, not quite  sure he heard him right. “I’d like to avoid another situation like this one. If I were to pass out again and hurt myself, I’d have to call someone and make a whole other slew of people concerned. By keeping him here, at least I can ensure I’m not alone.”

James’ doubtful gaze darted between them. “You do realize he’s-”

“The twin brother of Jerome Valeska, a man who’s tried to murder me on several occasions. Yes, I’m aware. However, I think it’s rather unfair to judge someone based solely on the actions of others. You don’t know him, detective. I understand that. However,  _ I  _ do. And I trust him. So if that’s all…”

“Mr. Valeska, do you have any objection to Bruce’s request?” James seemed perplexed by the turn of events.

Jeremiah replaced the book on the desk. He hadn’t absorbed a single word. “I suppose not. I understand his concerns, and if my presence would make him feel more secure, than of course I’ll oblige. Besides, perhaps this will give us an opportunity to make headway on the project I’ve been hired to conduct.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed. “This is an excellent opportunity to get some work done. I’ll see you out, detective.”

“Alright,” James repeated, still skeptical. “Just remember to get some sleep. You’ve had a long day,” he reminded Bruce, and graciously allowed himself to be led out of the study.

Bruce returned soon after, fingers still picking bits of glass out of his skin. “I’m surprised he actually listened to me. Jim isn’t exactly proud of my recent choices.”

“I wonder why,” Jeremiah responded dryly, taking a seat on the sofa. “Stop that,” he said quietly, indicating Bruce’s incessant picking at his wound. “You’ll just make it worse.”

“Oh that’s right. You were going to take care of it for me, weren’t you?” Bruce perched on the edge of the sofa, eyebrows raised as he looked at Jeremiah expectantly.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but if you insist…” Jeremiah reached for the cloth and bottle of antiseptic. Dabbing gently on the small cuts, he commented, “You know, in a way I feel as though you had this coming.”

Bruce shrugged. “Maybe I did. But so did Tommy.” The sting of the disinfectant didn’t seem to affect him at all; he didn’t even wince as the alcohol burned against the gash on his forehead.

“Are you going to try and repair things with him?”

“I doubt it. Unless I require his assistance in the future, which I also think is unlikely.”

“Good.”

Eyebrows raised again, Bruce looked at him curiously. “Good?”

“I don’t find his character to be very suitable from the way you’ve described him.”

“Suitable for what?”

“Suitable for companionship, I suppose.”

The brunette smiled mischievously. “Jeremiah Valeska, don’t tell me you’re jealous of my friends.”

“I’m not jealous, and they’re no longer your friends,” Jeremiah sniffed, affronted at such a notion.

“You  _ are _ jealous!” Bruce laughed and grabbed the cloth from his hands. “Do you just get all pompous when you’re jealous, or do you get angry and defensive too? That’d be cute.”

“I’m not having this argument with you. I’m not jealous. And I don’t anger easily. Now, if you’ll tell me where the restroom is, I’ll put these back for you.” He went to pick up the first aid supplies but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait, Jeremiah. Don’t go yet. I wanted to thank you for coming here tonight. You didn’t have to, so for that, I’m incredibly grateful.” Bruce’s hazel eyes had lost their playfulness.

“What do you mean, I didn’t have to? Of course I had to. I got a phone call, which is rare in it of itself I might add, and was told that you were hurt. What else was I going to do?” Carefully, he moved Bruce’s hand from his shoulder and held it in his. “Although, I was pulled over on my way here so I expect you to cover the expense of my speeding ticket.”

Bruce laughed again and laced his fingers through Jeremiah’s. “I will gladly pay for any tickets you receive on my behalf. Hopefully there’s only the one.”

“With you, I sincerely doubt it.”

To him, there wasn’t anything special about this statement. But Bruce saw something in it that he didn’t. Fingers still intertwined, he leaned forward on the arm of the sofa and kissed Jeremiah softly, cautiously, like he thought he was still angry with him. He must know by now that Jeremiah could never stay angry with him. Something about Bruce just made him feel at ease, less alone. Of course, he also made him incredibly confused and occasionally frustrated, but he was so easy to forgive. And Jeremiah knew he was fighting his own demons. 

So for now, he was content with having him in his embrace, familiarizing himself with Bruce’s touch and taste, with the way his lashes fluttered as he kissed him, the way he steadied himself with the hand Jeremiah was holding so he didn’t fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this chapter! I tried to keep Bruce's encounter with Ra's as close to canon as possible, so I hope it didn't come off too stagnant. Anyways, you guys already know how much I love interacting with you, so please feel free to leave comments and criticism, and if you want to, you can check out my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/evelynsinkwell) for your daily wayleska, valeyne, and nygmobblepot content! Thanks!


	8. Grape Parfait

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

That night, he didn’t have any nightmares. In fact, he slept more soundly than he had since he was twelve. And a traitorous corner of his mind suspected he owed it to the person sleeping in the guest room down the hall. Jeremiah had practically pleaded with Bruce to let him sleep on the couch to be less of an inconvenience, but there was no way he’d let a guest, especially  _ that _ guest, stay on the sofa. However, Bruce discovered his  _ other  _ motive that morning.

Despite having slept well, he certainly still couldn’t sleep  _ heavily. _ Which is why he awoke upon hearing a door click shut and quiet footsteps traipsing down the hall. Immediately thinking the worst, Bruce jolted upright and snatched the vase off his bedside table. Rushing to the door, he flung it open to reveal a tiptoeing Jeremiah trying to make his way to the stairs.

The engineer visibly jumped and flashed him a guilty look. “Oh, erm, good morning, Bruce.”

“You’re trying to leave,” Bruce accused.

“I am most certainly not trying to leave. I was just...why are you holding a vase?”

Bruce stared down at the vase, then shoved it behind his back. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Is there a person you regularly beat with a vase? Should I be concerned for your pottery? Your plants, perhaps?”

Rolling his eyes, he responded, “Stop worrying about the goddamn vase. Why are you trying to sneak out? It’s barely seven.”

Sighing, Jeremiah leaned against the banister. “Exactly. I’d hoped, because it’s barely seven, you’d still be asleep.”

“But why?” The statement came out whinier than he’d intended. Mentally berating himself, Bruce just looked at Jeremiah, waiting for an answer.

“Well, the entire purpose of my staying here overnight was to ensure you didn’t accidentally, or intentionally, honestly I wouldn’t put it past you, impale yourself on another table.” Jeremiah’s intelligent eyes met his. He looked different in the morning. More youthful. His glasses were off his face, tucked into his shirt pocket. His silky red hair was disheveled, not swept back in its usual style. And the resemblance between him and his brother pre facial mutilation was even more uncanny.

Bruce set the vase on the floor. It looked nice there. Maybe Alfred would leave it, if Bruce asked. “To be fair, the whole table thing wasn’t entirely my decision.”

“And so,” Jeremiah continued, ignoring his statement. “I’ve accomplished my task. Which means I’m released from duty. Which, if you’re still confused, means I get to leave.”

“ _ Get _ to leave? You make it sound like a privilege rather than an unfortunate but unavoidable parting of ways.” Bruce wasn’t even sure when he began saying shit like this, but even though he was well aware of it, he didn’t drop the habit simply because it caused Jeremiah to make interesting expressions. Mostly painful grimaces, but he’d get the occasional teensy smile which made all the brattiness worthwhile.

“Mhm, yes. I’m focusing mostly on the ‘unavoidable’ part. So, if you don’t mind-” Jeremiah inched closer to the stairs. Spotting this, Bruce darted in front of him, blocking the way.

“Why do you want to go so badly? Am I that unbearable to be around?”

Jeremiah’s turquoise eyes flickered up. “If I say yes, can I go?”

Taken aback, Bruce exclaimed, “No!”

“How are you still a pain this early in the morning?”

Smirking, he shrugged. “I’m a morning person. Tell me why you want to leave so badly, or I’ll throw myself down these stairs.” Yes, he was being irrational. But he couldn’t understand why the older boy was so eager to go. And maybe a small part of Bruce wanted him to hang around a little longer.

“You wouldn’t,” Jeremiah huffed, trying to push past him.

“Really?” Bruce quirked an eyebrow, and started to step back, releasing the railing. Alarm flashed across Jeremiah’s face and an arm instinctively wrapped around his waist.

“Bruce, you’re the most self-destructive person I’ve ever met,” Jeremiah muttered, pulling him back up on the landing. “I wanted to leave before you woke up because I felt guilty enough staying in your house overnight. I didn’t want you to think you had to make me breakfast or anything either, and you know I’m not very partial to talking about feelings or...anything, I don’t know,” he finished, flustered.

“Feelings?” Bruce asked, confused. “Why would we sit around and talk about feelings?”

Jeremiah stared at him, arm still around his waist. “I...you know what? I don’t know. Never mind. Forget it.” His arm fell, leaving Bruce feeling strangely unsupported. And cold, considering his thin tank and sweats. “Can I go now?”

Nose wrinkling in even more confusion, Bruce restated, “No?”

“That was a question.” How observant of you, Jeremiah Valeska.

“And yet it was somehow more clear than whatever the hell you just said to me.”

Crossing his arms, Jeremiah said through gritted teeth, “Bruce Wayne, I swear on my engineering degree’s life, I will pick you up and forcibly move you if I have to.” His tone made the brunette feel things like unwanted shivers of...something. Things he shouldn’t feel at seven in the morning.

“You have the upper body strength of a limp noodle,” Bruce instead chose to snort in disbelief.

Doing his signature eye roll, Jeremiah’s arms returned to Bruce’s waist, wrapping around him tightly. And when his feet left the ground, he’ll admit, he was caught off guard.

“Hey!-” he said indignantly as he was spun around until they were standing in opposite spots. “That’s not fair!”

“I’m going now,” Jeremiah said. Bruce didn’t miss the smug look on his face. Turning his back on him, the older boy practically ran down the stairs. And apparently ran directly into something as Bruce heard a thud and a distinct “ouch”. 

Racing after him, Bruce saw the redhead sprawled on the floor, apologizing profusely to an extremely perplexed Alfred.

“Master B,” his butler greeted him. “You’re looking chipper. Do you, perchance, mind explaining to me what Jeremiah Valeska is doing in the manor?”

“I was just about to be on my way, Mr. Pennyworth, sir,” Jeremiah said hastily, getting to his feet. “Again, my profound apologies for running into you like that.”

“Hold on just a minute, poppet. Let’s hear what Mr. Wayne is so clearly struggling to vocalize, shall we? It’d be a great disservice to him to have to put all that hard work into forming sentences for you to just leave him hanging, now wouldn’t it be?”

Jeremiah didn’t seem to have a response to that, and instead just waited for Bruce to speak. Bruce himself was waiting for the explanation to form in his head, but it was hard with both of them staring at him expectantly.

“I...fell.”

“You fell?” Alfred repeated slowly.

“Last night, I mean. I fell and hurt myself. I assumed you were still upset with me, as you had every right to be, and so I called Jeremiah.”

“He knew that I was close by,” Jeremiah, uncharacteristically, jumped to his defense. “I was working late on a house in Bristor County. Some ancient mansion whose structural integrity was failing. I I ran some ideas past Bruce earlier that day, so he knew I was in the area.”

Bruce could tell just from Alfred’s expression that he didn’t believe a word of it, so he was a bit shocked to hear him say, “Well, that’s reasonable, I suppose. And I’m sure you just stayed the night out of precaution. Why don’t you stay for breakfast, as well, Mr. Valeska?”

“That’s an extremely kind offer, Mr. Pennyworth, and I hope I have the opportunity to take you up on it soon. But my assistant is most likely worried sick about me, as I told her I’d be back last night, and I really should check in with that homeowner…” Jeremiah’s frantic excuses were easily seen through. Bruce felt like he was watching a tennis match.

With a smile, Alfred pressed, “I insist, sir. It’s the least I can do as thanks for rushing to the aid of Master Bruce. Right, sir?” his butler prompted, turning to him.

“Right, Alfred. I owe Mr. Valeska quite a bit for what he’s done for me.” Bruce gave Jeremiah a meaningful look. “Won’t you stay for breakfast?”

The desperation was clear on Jeremiah’s face as he realized he couldn’t smooth-talk his way out of this one. “Well, who would I be to turn down an invitation from Bruce Wayne?” he said with a smile that looked more like a grimace.

And so that’s how the three found themselves congregated at the kitchen table over an impressive spread of waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, and various fruit. To say the meal was awkward was an understatement. The entire ordeal was painstakingly difficult to get through. Alfred pried into Jeremiah’s life like it was a pistachio, which Bruce found incredibly boring since he’d heard all the stories he was retelling for his butler. So, he decided to find something more fun to do.

Stabbing a sausage link with his fork, Bruce acted as if he were enraptured by the story Jeremiah was telling about his early graduation. He gazed directly across the table to where the red-haired boy sat, Alfred to his left, and brought the fork up to his lips. Tongue flicking out, he tasted the tip of the sausage, eyes never leaving Jeremiah. Noticing that his action hadn’t garnered him any acknowledgement, he let his tongue trail down the length of the meat, smirking as Jeremiah’s eyes finally flickered over to him. Seeing what Bruce was doing, the older boy blinked and bit his cheek, turning his head away. Not fond of being ignored, he continued to thoroughly enjoy the breakfast food until Jeremiah’s gaze drifted back over to him. Bruce listened in satisfaction as Jeremiah began to stumble over his words, trying his best to keep his eyes off Bruce.

“And well, since I, um, since I was able to test out of um, my general education courses, I could, I mean really I was just working the uh...the system, and…” Jeremiah glanced back at Bruce, and he was pleased when he saw the older boy unconsciously lick his lips. Finally, the meal was becoming more tolerable.

“Bruce, please stop molesting your breakfast so Mr. Valeska can string a coherent sentence together,” Alfred interrupted his train of thought.

Jeremiah coughed loudly, choking on air at the butler’s request. Bruce, on the other hand, just replied, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” and ate the sausage. Alfred picked the conversation up like nothing had happened, and the rest of breakfast proceeded in much of the same manner as before. The only differences were the patches of red that never quite left Jeremiah’s cheeks and the smug feeling that kept Bruce occupied until they were finished.

“I’d like to speak with you, Master Bruce,” Alfred approached him after they’d cleaned up. 

Jeremiah, catching his words, said, “I should really be going now anyways. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Pennyworth. I do hope I get the chance to make it up to you. And Bruce,” he addressed him, eyes twinkling with faint amusement. “Do try to avoid tripping over your own feet, for the sake of us all.” His tone was nice enough but Bruce had a feeling he’d be getting his ears scolded off if Alfred weren’t there. 

“I’ll do my best,” Bruce smiled. Approaching the engineer, softly so Alfred couldn’t hear, he added, “Just so you don’t freak out again, I’m giving you a heads up. I’ll be calling you later. Despite my using it as an excuse, we really do need to discuss the project I’d talked about earlier.” He stepped away and said audibly, “Thank you for everything, Jeremiah. Have a safe drive.”

Nodding, Jeremiah returned his smile and headed towards the foyer. Alfred waited in silence until they heard the front doors click shut.

“So, sir, are you going to tell me what all that was really about?”

Leaning against the counter, Bruce replied, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You have several small scratches across your cheek and rather conspicuous cut on your forehead. Who’d you let rough you up?”

“I told you. I fell.”

“Onto a platter of nails apparently,” Alfred noted.

“I got in a fight with Tommy,” Bruce conceded. It wasn’t worth the argument.

“And you let the bugger win? What happened to five years of combat instruction? You understand this reflects poorly on me, yes?” His butler’s tone was serious, but Bruce could tell he was simply teasing him.

“I didn’t let him win,” he huffed. “He just happened to gain the upper hand and placed me in a compromising position. I hadn’t exactly trained for having my head slammed against the table in the study. I’ve learned my lesson though; to uphold your reputation, I’ll attempt different scenarios with every piece of furniture in Wayne Manor. Will that suffice?”

Alfred shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see, now won’t we? So if your story isn’t true, then why was Jeremiah Valeska here?”

“Grace accidentally called him instead of you. Both of your cell phone numbers were pinned to the desk since yours is always there and I’d spent an absurd amount of hours the other day tracking down Jeremiah’s. I wasn’t going to just throw it out after all that effort. But I guess she panicked and just randomly chose a sticky note. Then there was a whole mix-up with him and the GCPD, since, y’know, he’s Jerome Valeska’s twin brother which is still kind of strange if I’m being entirely honest. But they got that sorted out, luckily, and so he came here to make sure I hadn’t died or something.” It’s possible that Bruce was babbling now, but he felt like he owed Alfred since he’d kept so much from him lately.

His butler still seemed dissatisfied with his explanation. “And so the pair of you just had a cheeky sleepover after his run in with the police, right?”

“It was late. He’d already gotten a speeding ticket on my behalf, I wasn’t going to suddenly send him away after he’d so selflessly, and unnecessarily, come to my rescue.”

“Oh yes,” his butler agreed. “I’m sure that’s it. It’s not like that little gingersnap has been the only thing occupying your mind these days.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m working on something incredibly important right now,” Bruce indignantly informed him.

Alfred raised his brows. “With Jeremiah Valeska?”

“...Perhaps.” Bruce braced his hands on the countertop. “From a completely objective perspective, he’s an extremely valuable resource. He’s experienced, especially concerning Wayne Enterprises. Not to mention he’s clever and trustworthy. It’s difficult to find people like him in Gotham.”

“Alright, alright. I don’t particularly need the details of whatever your relationship is with Jeremiah Valeska as long as he doesn’t start to emulate his brother and you don’t pull any more stunts like the one during breakfast.”

“I still don’t have a clue what you’re referring to, but of course, Alfred. Although, it’s not really up to me if he decides to start murdering people.”

“Bruce!” Alfred reprimanded, suddenly concerned.

“I’m kidding! He’s a pacifist. I think.”

“Pacifist or not, I hope you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I’m not ‘getting myself into’ anything. I’m seeing the value in a particular friendship and using it to accomplish a goal.”

Alfred’s eyebrows went up again. “That sounds like getting yourself into something, sir.”

“Are you upset with me?”

The rapid change in topic caught Alfred off guard. “I-A bit. I mean, well, frankly, yes, Master Bruce.”

Nodding, he responded evenly, “I know. And I understand where you’re coming from. But you need to let me live my life and make my own mistakes. I’m not going to change just because you’re worried about me, so there’s no use spending countless nights awake, fretting for my safety from a motel room.”

“But how can I not be worried when you never wake before two in the afternoon, you’re out god knows where getting hammered, and throwing yourself into whatever conflict comes your way?” Alfred’s voice rose as he listed off every action or choice Bruce had made in the past two months. “You got hurt just last night and you’re suddenly best friends with an infamous psychopath’s brother! What is there not to be worried about?”

Bruce had to admit, his guardian had a point. Put all in order like that, he’d probably be at least a little concerned as well. But he was just trying to find himself, like all teenagers. Wasn’t he?

“I’m just trying to figure out who I am,” Bruce muttered, grip tightening on the counter. “And I need you to respect that.”

The butler met his eyes, desperately trying to convey his fears. “Bruce. I remember a time, two years ago, when you wrote me a letter. You left this letter in your father’s concealed office, the one we’d spent days working together to open. And in that letter, you explained something to me. You told me that in order to serve Gotham as best you could, you needed to see the corrupt, foul, hopeless parts of it. You needed to live the life of the unfortunate, the poor, and the forgotten. Otherwise you’d never become the man you were meant to be. You were figuring out who you were. You were finding your place. And I let you. I supported you because I believed you knew what you were doing and why you had to do it. I respected that. Because that was honest and admirable. But I cannot respect what you’re asking me to now because I  _ know _ this isn’t you. You already know who you are, Bruce. You found yourself in the gutters of Gotham two years ago. You saw what the city needed in the faces of the homeless and the abused. And you swore to become that person. So where is he? I’ve seen him, Bruce. I’ve seen you. This isn’t you. The recklessness, the arrogance, and the disregard for everything you stood for. You need to find yourself again.”

Bruce felt something stinging at his eyes and in his chest. He couldn’t stand the look Alfred was giving him. His words felt like icicles pricking at him until he could find something, anything, to say.

Quietly, he murmured, “The man you saw died when he murdered another person. He sunk to the lowest, most vile action a human could. How could he be the hero that Gotham needed when he couldn’t even save himself from becoming exactly what he’d promised to fight?” Despite the rhetorical nature of the question, Bruce was  _ praying _ Alfred had an answer.

His guardian’s voice was gentle yet steady as he replied, “He redeems himself, Master B. He does enough good to outweigh the bad. He’ll never be able to completely erase that decision from who he is. But rather than let the choice consume him, he grows and becomes better, stronger, and wiser. And the only way to do that is to continue fighting against the wretchedness that threatens everything he loves.”

 

…

Six days had passed since his conversation with Alfred. The streets had welcomed him back as only they could: like a friend you could’ve been close with but you’d cut off because you realized that, despite your best efforts, they could only take. And at some point you had to stop giving. And now they wanted you,  _ needed  _ you, again. A sort of bittersweet fondness rose in Bruce as he watched the passerby of East End. People around here always moved in packs, waiting for an opportunity to take advantage of whoever happened to walk by. In short, it was the perfect place for Selina to nest, doing business with crooks beneath the notice of the police and hoarding whatever treasures she didn’t need to sell.

Selina had let him crash at her place the past four nights after about an hour of profuse apologies and begging. There were only two rules: Don’t touch her shit and don’t bring anyone else. Bruce could live with this, even if his fingers were itching to examine some of the more questionable pieces in her collection. She rarely came home nowadays anyways. She was always out playing Barbara Kean’s errand girl.

Bruce caught a glimpse of curly brown hair as she darted around the corner. In her arms was a canvas bag, weapons and cash spilling out the unzipped top. Two men clad in biker jackets chased behind her, brandishing knives.

“Selina!” he shouted, racing to her side. He aimed a punch at one of the guys’ jaw while pulling his other arm back to catch the second on the nose. Taking advantage of the distraction, Selina slipped past them and between two apartment buildings, easily disappearing in the cover of the shadows.

A blow landed on his ribs, knocking the wind out of him. The bulky man whose nose he’d broken blocked his way, blood dripping from the fractured orifice.

“I hope you don’t have any plans of catching up with your little girlfriend,” the man sneered, greasy dark hair hanging in his face.

“Well, she has the cash to cover dinner so I’ll have to meet up with her sometime. That wasn’t  _ your _ money, was it?” Bruce inquired innocently, backing slowly towards the firescape behind them.

“Funnily enough, kid, it  _ was. _ Now someone’s gonna have to pay for it.” The man leered at him, following his slow steps.

“That’s only fair. And I really hope you find someone to cover the cost!” Bruce called over his shoulder as he scaled the metal structure swiftly. He was a little out of practice, but one never really forgot how to run away from knife-brandishing criminals. It was sort of an instinctive thing.

He felt the ladder shake beneath him as the man latched on. By this point, Bruce had reached the metal stairs and took them three at a time while the crook bellowed curses and threats because he knew he couldn’t catch him.

A helping hand flashed out to steady him as he hauled himself onto the rooftop. Selina stared at him in amusement, canvas bag by her feet.

“I didn’t need any help,” she commented once Bruce was safely sitting on the concrete.

“You never need any help,” Bruce replied, smiling. “Not to say you should tell me when you plan on robbing the local gangs, but you should tell me when you plan on robbing the local gangs.”

“Why?” Selina asked, rifling through her winnings. “So you don’t mistake me for one of those criminals you go out hunting every night? I think I could take you.”

“I don’t know,  _ Cat. _ I’ve gotten pretty good lately.”

“And humble, too,” she snorted. “C’mon, grab the bag.”

As he picked it up, Bruce noticed all of the cash had been conveniently removed and stuffed in Selina’s pockets. He flashed her a look.

“What? Let’s get pizza. I’m buyin’.”

“Sweet, but what am I supposed to do with a bag full of glocks while we get pizza?” He shook the bag as he spoke to emphasize his point.

Selina rolled her eyes. “It’s Gotham. Zip it up.”

 

…

After much grumbling, Selina finally agreed to eat in the restaurant. Bruce didn’t particularly want to be sitting in the humid hole-in-the-wall shop either, but something about her apartment made him feel paranoid. He’d prefer soaking in enough grease through his pores to give him acne for weeks over getting shot through the gaps in her crumbling brick walls.

“So, when are you headin’ home?” Selina asked as she picked up a slice.

“Who said I was going back?”

“Seeing as you only hang out with me these days when you’re running from someone else, I’m just sorta waiting for you to figure that out. What happened, anyway? You were a total douche the last time I saw you.” He’d missed her those past few months. One of his biggest regrets was cutting her off when he’d needed her most.

“I told you, I was trying something new.” Bruce picked up his own slice as he spoke.

”There’s nothing new about you being a douche to me.” Bruce reached across the table and swatted her shoulder, both of them laughing. “Besides,” she continued, “I’m just asking ‘cause I’m not the only one who’s curious.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, your phone’s been going off non stop. Who the hell is “Xander” and why is his name in quotes?” She pulled his phone out while she talked and flipped it open.

“Hey!” Bruce exclaimed, reaching for it. She handed it over without protest. “Why do you have my phone?”

Selina shifted guiltily in her seat. “I was carrying it for you, duh.”

“Uh huh. Please don’t make anymore purchases using my name behind my back. If you need something, just tell me.”

He missed Selina’s muttered response as he examined the phone. Four missed calls and even a text. Jeremiah was more persistent than Bruce thought. He felt inexplicably warm at the thought. But the fuzziness disappeared when he opened the text. All it read was:

_ I found something. _

Attached was a file. A list, actually, of names. Every employee of his in charge of international monetary transactions. They were each aligned with the branch of WayneCorp Int. Banking in which they worked. And eight of them were flagged as associated with the Falcone crime family, with the disclaimer  _ “Documented evidence provided upon request.” _ This was exactly what he’d needed to cement his theories.

The message was three days old. Jeremiah was probably pissed that he’d just up and disappeared. He’d promised to call the older boy that same day. Whatever. Bruce wasn’t responsible for his feelings. But this gift made him feel incredibly guilty. He’d asked Jeremiah to work on this with him and then he’d completely forgotten all about it. And while he was out getting in fights with street criminals, Jeremiah had kept investigating for him. Which was absolutely the engineer’s choice and Bruce hadn’t even asked him to continue.  _ But you practically forced him into the project, _ he reminded himself.  _ He agreed. It was his choice.  _ Bruce was sick of hearing from that voice.  _ It can wait a little longer,  _ he argued.

And yet, he heard himself say, “Actually, Selina, I need to go.”

“Great. More pizza for me.” Her nonchalant attitude used to escape his notice, but Bruce had known her too long to miss it now.

“I can come back in a couple of hours if you want the company,” he immediately offered.

She sighed and set down her slice of pizza like he was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “No, Bruce. Go do whatever it is that you need to do. I’ll be  _ fine. _ Besides, I don’t need you getting in the way of my work again.”

Bruce stood up and grabbed his phone off the table. “I’ll check back in soon, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she shooed him. “I’ll see you later, Bruce.”

Night had fallen by the time he left the restaurant. The orange glow of dirty streetlamps he’d become so familiar with illuminated the street.  _ Fine,  _ he decided.  _ If Jeremiah is going to be such an overachiever, I refuse to come back empty-handed. I’ll just gather some information myself. _ And so he turned his feet south and headed towards Upper Gotham Proper.

 

…

A brick building in oddly good shape towered above Bruce as he stood in the concrete courtyard of the Falcone Home and School for Orphans. The orphanage made him feel uneasy. Just the thought that if circumstances had been even a little different upon his parents’ death, he could have landed in a place like this...it made him more thankful than ever for Alfred, which was saying quite a lot. 

Crossing the courtyard, swings creaking in the brisk wind, Bruce knocked on the orphanage door. A timid elderly man cracked the doorway and asked, “How may I help you, sir?”

Bruce extended a hand and smiled. “My name is Bruce Wayne, I was wonder-”

“Oh!” the man gasped and accepted his handshake. “Mr. Wayne, my apologies. I’m Arthur Penn, an associate of Ms. Falcone’s.”

Bruce had researched enough about the Falcone crime family to know exactly who Arthur Penn was. The only issue is, Penn was supposed to be working for Oswald Cobblepot as his bookkeeper. Cobblepot probably wouldn’t be thrilled to know the accountant was two-timing him. Nevertheless, Bruce simply said, “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Penn. I was actually wondering if Miss Falcone was here, I’d like to discuss a business inquiry with her.”

Penn withdrew his hand and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. “Miss Falcone is currently reading to the children. Perhaps if you could come back at an earlier hour…”

“Of course. I simply thought she’d want to know that Mayor Burke has returned to Gotham and was last seen speaking to Oswald Cobblepot.”

“On second thought, Mr. Wayne, I think Miss Falcone would be very interested in speaking with you.” The benefits a bit of digging could reap were astounding.

Bruce suppressed a smirk and followed the accountant into the orphanage. They passed through many ornate corridors lined with what Bruce assumed were Falcone family portraits as well as photos of the orphans themselves. They were all smiling and strangely enough, their smiles seemed genuine. Perhaps Sofia really was doing something good for these kids.

Penn paused outside a door at the end of another corridor and rapped his knuckles softly against the wooden frame. The shuffling of feet and children’s hushed excitement could be heard behind it. The door swung open, revealing a dark-haired young woman with regal features. At the sight of Bruce, Sofia Falcone plastered an elegant smile on her face and greeted him.

“Bruce Wayne, what a pleasant surprise. My sincerest apologies for being unable to greet you at the door, I was just sending the children to bed with a fairytale. I’m almost finished; you wouldn’t mind staying for the end, would you?”

Returning her smile, Bruce replied, “It would be my pleasure, Miss Falcone.”

Sofia opened the door wider and gestured to the parlor beyond it. “Then please, make yourself at home.” Turning away from him, she addressed the kids. “We have a guest this evening, children. This is Mr. Wayne. You may have quite a bit to learn from him. He’s an orphan as well, and perhaps the most respected man in Gotham.”

“Please don’t oversell me, Miss Falcone. It’d be dishonourable for me to claim the respectability my parents earned from decades of service to Gotham simply through descent.” The children looked up at him with kind but wary eyes. He didn’t blame them for their caution: he’d been just as reserved, if not more so, when he was younger. The oldest one in the room appeared to be around eleven, the youngest no more than three or four.

“Do you have any words of encouragement for us, Mr. Wayne?” Sofia inquired, taking a seat in the grand armchair in front of the fireplace.

“My only advice is to never lose hope. Find joy in everything you can, even when it feels like all the world wants to do is tear every bit of happiness from you. The only way you can fight back is by standing in the light. Smile at every opportunity. Laugh whenever it gets too quiet. Seek excitement. Don’t be afraid to love, especially when it terrifies you.” He thought the words would be difficult to get out, but once he started speaking, they tumbled from his mouth in a waterfall of emotion. And perhaps he realized he was doing a rather poor job of taking his own advice.

…

“Well, Bruce Wayne. What can I do for you?” Sofia closed the volume of fairy tales she had just finished reading to the children, all of whom had already departed for bed.

Her smile was kind enough but her eyes were cold and calculating. Bruce met them with far better concealed guile. “You’ve been in Gotham for a few months now, and I feel ashamed that I haven’t properly introduced myself yet. You’re an incredibly important figure in the city, and I respect the work you’ve done here immensely. I hope you and I can work closely in the future to better Gotham as a whole.”

“It would be an honor, Mr. Wayne,” Sofia smiled. But then she stood, and her pleasant expression fell almost as quickly as it had come. “Now that society’s demanded customs are out of the way, please feel inclined to tell me why you’re really here, at eight-thirty at night, no less.”

“I understand the inconvenience of the hour, and I’ve given you my express apologies for that. I’m only here so late because, you see, I’m not much of an early riser, and unfortunately, I had other obligations I couldn’t put off before meeting you.” Alfred’s advice was ringing in his ears as he spoke.  _ The one thing a negotiator should never do, Master Bruce, is sound like they have more important places to be. Always make sure that one conversation sounds like the focal point of your world, or else you’ll have lost your audience completely. _ Hopefully, he hadn’t lost Sofia yet.

The coldness in her eyes was unchanging, given away nothing to Bruce. “Well, if that’s all then…” Yeah, he’d lost her. But he was  _ boy-billionaire-Bruce-fucking-Wayne.  _ He could pull this back. And clearly excessively cautious politics weren’t the way to go. Well, Bruce had one other card that usually did the trick.

“You want me to go so soon?” Bruce gave her his best photoshoot smile. “I do hate to break it to you, but since I’ve finally received the honor of your attention, you aren’t getting rid of me that easily. I simply hadn’t realized how elusive it was; I’ll do my best to keep it from now on.”

Sofia raised a curious eyebrow. “You certainly have my attention, Mr. Wayne. What exactly do you want?” She was being careful not to offend him, Bruce could tell by the tightness in her even tone.

“I already told you, but I’ll gladly ask again. I want you and I to work together. I want to ensure your safety here in Gotham, a city where everyone will happily hunt the leading mafiosa to her death for enough money. I’m aware of several gangs preparing to strike against you, and I’d gladly provide you with that list.”

She took a step towards Bruce, picking unconsciously at her nails. “An alliance, to put it in clear terms?”

“I’m not much one for labels, but call it what you will. The intention is the same.”

“And what, exactly, do you require from me? Security to do my business as I please is all fine and well, but these things always have a sense of reciprocity to them, do they not?”

“Just that. Security and reciprocity. My company was publicly associated with the inner workings of your father’s organization. My parents knew Don Falcone well. Him and my father were once very close. However, I’m asking for somewhat of the converse of that relationship. I’m asking you for assurance that, if I provide you with the information you need to handle your opposition, you will leave Wayne Enterprises untouched and unaffected. I foresee a prosperous future for Gotham with both you and I doing our parts to return the city to its former glory. All I’m asking for is parallelism rather than a traceable jumble of interaction.”

Bruce could practically see her running calculations in her head. Her dark eyes narrowed as she considered his proposition. But then she pulled her own trump card. “You suspect me of something to do with you company, don’t you, Mr. Wayne?” Honesty. When a politician steps out of the dance of cleverly-worded promises and greyscale affiliations, they know the other party has nothing to hold over them.

But that only ever worked if the other party was truly ignorant. And Bruce had held this card in his hand for years. (In fact, as a kid, it’s the only one he knew how to play when he went looking for his parents’ killer.) “Of course I do, Miss Falcone. I would be a fool not to. Shall I explicitly outline the occurrences I believe you to be behind, or would you like to fill in the blanks yourself?”

“By all means, please, enlighten me,” Sofia smiled, her expression always reminiscent of a snake’s.

Slipping three folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket (yes, he’d been carrying these around to analyze for the past week), he laid them out on the desk behind him. Pointing at the first one, he said, “Four and a half million dollars. Vanished. The money was cleverly funneled out of all six of Wayne Enterprises international banks over a period of three months, almost as long as you’ve been in Gotham. I’ve already investigated each employee involved with international monetary transactions, and I’ve compiled (technically, Jeremiah had compiled) a list noting every employee associated with the Falcone name. I can deliver that list to you within a day, if you’d like.” She opened her mouth, most likely to defend herself, but Bruce cut across her. Placing a finger on the second and third sheets, he continued, “Two of our underground programs have reported missing technology, the likes of which you stand to benefit from immensely.”

Still nothing in her eyes to give anything away. “Do I? What sort of technology?” There. Intrigue. As though the thought had never occurred to her before. But that had to be intentional. Right? Besides, he had nothing to lose at this point by telling her outright. After all, neither object was in his possession anymore.

“The first item stolen was a wireless remote. It releases an electromagnetic pulse to unlock a specific type of door. They’re typically used in hospitals and solitary confinement wards in prisons.”

“And why would I need to break someone out of a hospital or prison?”

“I’m leaning towards the latter. Many of your father’s associates are currently incarcerated in Blackgate or pleaded insanity so they could be admitted into Arkham. Both institutions implemented this lock upon the reopening of the asylum five years ago so as to conserve funds on keycards.”

“You don’t find it suspicious that this is an object  _ your _ company has manufactured?” 

“Not at all, since I commissioned it.” Sofia attempted to speak, but Bruce spoke over her once more. “The second item was admittedly a bit of an oddity, and not something I knew was in development. In fact, I can’t think of a reason why you’d steal it besides publicity for your campaign of sorts.”

“If you don’t think I stole it, then why bring it up?”

“I didn't say I don’t think you stole it. I said it was a strange thing to steal. It’s another form of signal transmitter, but this one interacts with radios. In theory, when synchronized with a broadcasting station, the transmitter should affect all operating single DIN radios and switch them to the channel the transmitter is broadcasting from.”

Sofia’s smile grew. “Mr. Wayne, you must realize at this point that these petty thefts are not the work of my people. The money? Yes, I instructed my associates to trickle a large sum of funds from your various banking locations. But those oddities you’ve informed me of were not my doing. I have no need for such blatantly underhanded tactics, as I’m sure you know. In my world, things are done in a very specific manner. There are boundaries. I do not stoop to criminal inexperience.”

Bruce knew she was right. He felt foolish for approaching her with the accusations. But the fact still remained that she had stolen from him. And outright admitted to her thievery. “I suppose it’s too easy to simply ask you to return the money?”

“Four and a half million dollars flooding into Bruce Wayne’s bank account would be far more suspicious, don’t you think? Besides, much of it has already been spent on...resources.” Sofia returned to her regal chair, crossing her ankles and subtly smirking at her own triumph.

“Then I suppose you have two options,” Bruce shrugged, leaning against the desk. “The first is messy, and certainly not the route you want to go. You see, unlike everyone else you deal with in Gotham, you have nothing to hold over me. I’m clean, as far as the law is concerned, and well-respected. I could bring this to court. Every ounce of evidence I have against you, I could hand over and let the law take its course. Now normally, you would just pay off the judge, or attorney, or whoever you could bribe to your case. But I have infinitely more resources and far more sway in Gotham. You don’t stand a chance. And you’d have much more to lose than a few million dollars.” The smug look dropped from her face almost instantly, replaced by a layer of thinly veiled anger. “ _ Or, _ ” Bruce offered. “You hold a fundraiser for the orphanage. If you manage to earn back every cent you stole, in the name of these kids, I’ll forget about the whole thing. Between all the members of Gotham’s elite, you should make just enough, if you throw in the remainder of my money that you still have. But the choice up to you, of course.”

Sofia bit her lip, casting her brooding gaze to the side. “As you wish, Mr. Wayne. A fundraiser it is,” she eventually murmured. She rose to her feet again, crossing to stand beside him. Retrieving a notepad from the desk, she scribbled something then tore the paper out, offering it to him with a delicate hand. “I’ll send out official invitations in the morning. For now, take this as my promise that what you ask for will be done. Now, it’s late, and I must get to bed if I have a charity event to put together come tomorrow.” Bruce could tell when he was being dismissed. Accepting the slip of paper, he walked to the door, Sofia following close behind.

“Thank you for your time, Ms Falcone. I look forward to attending your benefit.”

“And I look forward to your attendance, Mr. Wayne,” Sofia said through a thin smile.

Nodding, Bruce stepped out of the parlor and once the door clicked shut behind him, he made his way towards the exit, remembering the route only because he’d studied the pictures so closely on his way in.

As soon as he was outside, he pulled out his phone. Bruce was torn; he  _ should _ call Jeremiah directly, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing Bruce needed his research to pull off that conversation with Sofia. But he  _ did _ want to thank him. Making a decision, he scrolled through his contacts, finally finding the name he was looking for.

“Hey Lucius, I know it’s late, I’m sorry. I was just wondering if you could pull up a file for me…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who didn't drop off the face of the planet and is, in fact, still writing :) Sorry this took so long to come out, I've had finals all week but I'm DONE now, so get ready for much more frequent chapter updates. In fact, I have most of the next chapter already written. Thank you guys for sticking around through all of my spontaneous posts, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	9. Red Dove

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Jeremiah stared at the cellphone in his hand, eyes fixated on the blue light. He knew he shouldn’t just sit here, doing  _ nothing,  _ but there wasn’t really anything else he could do. He wasn’t going to bother Bruce more than he already had, and he certainly wasn’t going to show up at his house again demanding his attention. He’d reach out to Jeremiah when he was ready. Until then...well, until then, all he could do was wait. And stare blankly at his phone, apparently. 

Almost a week had passed since the last time they’d spoken, and it had hardly been a pleasant final encounter. Bruce hadn’t let him leave when he should have, and then punished Jeremiah by turning him into a fool in front of his guardian. A fantastic first impression, truly. Why Bruce felt the need to be such a complicated pain in the ass was beyond him. Perhaps it was just the billionaire’s nature. Well, he’d done all he could. He’d looked into the histories of Wayne Enterprise’s employees and gathered as much useful information as he’d been able to dig up. Hopefully, Bruce would be able to put it to some use.

A buzz sounded throughout the bunker, interrupting Jeremiah’s internal pity party. Glancing up in confusion, he called, “Ecco?” 

The door to his office slid open and in entered his assistant, looking equally as perplexed. “Yes, Mr. Valeska?”

“Did I, perchance, accidentally schedule a meeting for ten-thirty at night rather than ten-thirty in the morning?”

“No, sir, not that I’m aware of. After the...incident...in December, I’ve made sure to triple-check your calendar. Your next appointment is set for Monday.”

“So then…”

“Your current visitor is unscheduled. Impromptu, if that helps.”

“Very helpful, Ecco,” Jeremiah muttered, walking over to his security console. “Let’s find out exactly who our  _ impromptu _ visitor is, shall we?” Flicking a switch, his camera system came to life. And staring directly into the outside camera none other than…

“Bruce Wayne?” Ecco inquired. She sounded almost annoyed.

“Bruce,” Jeremiah breathed, ignoring her. He hadn’t even realized just how concerned he’d been until the focus of all his worry was standing at his door. Containing his emotions, he instructed his assistant, “Well, let him in. It’s rude to keep a guest waiting, after all.”

Nodding stiffly, Ecco left the room. Jeremiah could hear the click of her heels against the tile until they began to fade with her ascent through the bunker. As soon as he was alone, Jeremiah pressed a hand to his temple, closing his eyes. “Of course. After a week of silence he just shows up like nothing happened. God, that’s so typical of him. Doesn’t matter. Just brush it off. It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’ll just-”

“I’m gone for six days and you’ve already resorted to talking to yourself?” a melodic voice teased from the doorway, forcing Jeremiah out of his self-absorption. “I probably would too if I lived three-stories underground in a nuclear bomb shelter, if I’m being fair.”

Calmly opening his eyes, Jeremiah replied, “Thinking aloud can be very useful in processing one’s internal dialogue.”

“Well, it’s not really internal then, is it?” Bruce smirked at him, leaning against the metal frame.

Smartass. “I suppose not. What can I do for at this hour, Mr. Wayne?”

“Oh are we back to playing boss and employee again? Then you’ll be happy to know,  _ Mr. Valeska, _ I was very satisfied with your report.” Bruce practically sashayed into his office, picking up papers and leafing through them as if they were his own. “In fact, I already broke the news to Sofia Falcone. She was heartbroken, of course. More so that I’m making her repay the money in charity work rather than upset at her being discovered.”

“Ah charity, man’s most professed yet least given essential of life. I’m pleased to hear my research was of some value to your investigation. Is that all you’ll be needing from me, then?” Jeremiah didn’t even notice himself anxiously twisting his tie between his fingers. He didn’t used to do that.

Bruce turned to face him and narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed, as if Jeremiah’s question offended him. “Of course not. There’s still plenty we need to do. For starters, you’re coming with me to this fundraiser.”

In response, Jeremiah turned his own back to the younger boy, stating, “I’d rather not, Mr. Wayne.” He busied his hands with flicking through the console, barely pausing to actually observe what was presented to him on the screens.

“You’d rather not?” Bruce repeated. Jeremiah hated it when people repeated his words, as if they’d changed between the three seconds he’d uttered them and the millisecond it took to reach their ears. Therefore, he felt no response was necessary. After a moment of tense silence, Bruce sighed. “Look, Jeremiah, I know running off like that without any warning was a dick move. And not the first one I’ve pulled on you, and certainly not the last. I’m not sure if you’ve realized this yet, but I’m kind of a dick in general. I don’t mean to be. Well, actually, sometimes I do, but then I feel bad about it later. But rather than just take some accountability for my actions, I run away from them, thinking I can leave them behind and if I stay away long enough, they’ll be gone when I get back. I’ve done that to you a lot. And I’d say I’m sorry, but I know it doesn’t count for anything, and you deserve more than some two-word apology, but I never know what you want because you’re so damn reserved all the time like you think opening up will split you in half. 

"And in your case, because you have a legitimate evil twin, I suppose your fear isn’t entirely unfounded but it’d be really nice if you wanted to give it a shot. The opening up thing, I mean. I don’t deserve your honesty in any capacity, but you’ve already given me so many things I don’t deserve that maybe it isn’t crossing the line to ask for just one more. Is it?”

Jeremiah couldn’t face him. He knew that if he caught even a glimpse of those sharply delicate features gazing at him with the same amount of pleading he could hear in Bruce’s voice, he’d cave immediately. That’s what Bruce was counting on. And so he remained still, attention fixed on the console in front of him. And he felt himself swell suddenly with a torrent of anger he didn’t know he was restraining.

“How can you stand there, in my house uninvited, and ask  _ me  _ to be open with  _ you _ when you can’t even tell me what the hell made you so apathetic and self-destructive?” He could hear his voice trembling, but he tried to force it out by increasing the volume. It had been a long time since he’d spoken this loudly. “What do you  _ want _ from me, Bruce? You want me to smile, and be gentle, and pretend like everything is fine? Do you know how fucking selfish that is? You’re right; it’s not my place to care, but you’ve driven yourself into my head like a parasite and all you do is take from me. As someone who’s known you for what, three weeks, what else can I  _ give _ that you don’t already have?”

A painful stillness filled the room. He’d gone too far. He knew he had. But he couldn’t take it back. What bittersweet parallels Bruce always managed to bring up for him.

“I murdered him.”

Jeremiah almost didn’t hear his soft murmur. “What?” He finally turned back around, slowly. Bruce was staring past him, eyes shimmering with something Jeremiah would mistake for tears if he didn’t know the other boy better.

“A man. Ra’s al Ghul. I stabbed him. He hurt Alfred. He wanted me to kill him. He kept telling me things,  _ terrible _ things. I couldn’t bear to stand there, to let him keep taunting me, threatening everyone I loved, or  _ would _ love. I needed him to stop. And before I knew it, I’d driven a blade into his heart. And then I did it again. And again. Until he was gone.” Bruce shifted his gaze, meeting Jeremiah’s eyes with so much vulnerability and regret he could feel it in his heart, melting all the anger that had gathered there over the past week.  _ “I broke my promise, Miah,” _ he whispered, the first tear gliding down his cheek.

He crossed the room in two strides, pulling Bruce against him, holding him as tightly as possible. Jeremiah just wanted the pain to go away; he just wanted Bruce to stop feeling as though he were drowning. Pressing him to his chest, he stroked the boy’s dark hair, listening to the sounds of his sharp inhales and shaky exhales. Bruce buried his nose in Jeremiah’s shoulder, wrapping his hands in the folds of his coat and trying his best to conceal his tears. But Jeremiah cherished every ounce of emotion Bruce revealed, and he didn’t want him to be ashamed of it.

“Letting them fall doesn’t make you any less of a man,” Jeremiah spoke softly into his hair. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I shouldn’t have forced you to tell me if you didn’t want to. And you’re right when you say it makes little difference, but for what it’s worth, I’m so sorry, Bruce. Sometimes we make choices that hurt, ones we wish we could take back as soon as we see the consequences. I know. I’ve seen it happen to people I love. I’ve  _ made _ those choices. You’re going to get through it, though. You’re so strong, Bruce. You just need to pick yourself back up. No one else can do that for you. Believe me, I would if I could. I’d find every little piece and put it back in its rightful place just to be able to see you whole. I’d go to the ends of the earth and farther because you deserve to feel put back together again. You need to release the weight of this guilt that’s crushing you, because it’s going to destroy you. And then you’ll never have the chance to grow, to rectify the decision that’s eating away at you. Please, Bruce, release it.”

The brunette was crying now, unabashedly for the first time, yet somehow his tears were more beautiful than those of the sky itself. “I can’t just let it go, Miah. It’s not that simple,” he managed to mumble to his shoulder.

“Then let me carry some of it. Please.”

Bruce lifted his head from Jeremiah’s shoulder. His eyes were pink and sparkling. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s too much for you to carry on your own, but you said that you can’t let it go. So let me hold some of it for you. At least long enough for you to process your half.”

“My half?” he repeated through a watery smile. The notion sounded absurd when Bruce said it back to him like that, but Jeremiah persisted nonetheless.

“Yes. Your half. You can have it back when you can handle it.”

“Is that a challenge, Jeremiah Valeska?” Bruce was still pressed against him, but he’d stopped shaking and his smile had yet to fade. Perhaps this was simply him repressing his emotions, but Jeremiah took the short slip in composure as progress.

“If I say yes-”

“You always start questions like that!” Bruce interrupted. “ _ Yes,  _ Miah. If you say yes, I’ll start trying to be more open with you. I can’t guarantee I’ll let you bear the brunt of my guilt; I’m inclined to believe I might struggle with that. But I’ll do my best.  _ Only _ if you promise to do the same.”

“Bruce, this isn’t about me-”

“That’s my offer.” The brunette pulled away from him, crossing his arms. “Take it or leave it, it makes no difference to me.”

As if Jeremiah believed that. But rather than pick another fight, he simply responded, “I’ll take it. Whatever you’re willing to give me, I’ll take.”

“I’m glad,” Bruce said, searching Jeremiah’s eyes for...something. He had no idea what he was looking for, but for some reason, he couldn’t look away.

“What is it?” Jeremiah finally asked, perplexed. “Do I have something on my face?”

Smiling softly, Bruce answered, “No, there’s nothing on your face. You’re just...Alright, so I’ve been thinking about some things and-”

“Wait, you didn’t finish your other statement.” Now Jeremiah’s curiosity was piqued. “I’m just what?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing. What I wanted to say next is more pressing so I figured I’d prioritize.”

“That’s rather strange logic but by all means, then, continue.”

“It’s just that, before Alfred convinced me to take off for a while, you’d said something about...feelings, and not being good with them.” If Jeremiah had been the one speaking, he would’ve been fidgeting uncontrollably, but Bruce was oddly calm, a sense of determination in his stature that Jeremiah rarely got to see.

“Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s something I’d said. Why?”

“Well, like I said, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands recently, and not enough on my mind, and I’m just curious...what sort of feelings were you referring to?” Oh. So that’s where he was going with this. 

“Ah. Um, well, that was a while ago. I’m not really sure what I was getting at. Besides, it was early in the morning and-”

“So they really weren’t that memorable, right?” Bruce was gazing at him steadily with those hazel eyes.  _ I could never forget, actually, _ Jeremiah thought to himself, but he had no idea how to voice that. Besides, perhaps Bruce wasn’t even asking the question Jeremiah thought he was.

He did his best not to trip over his speech as he replied, “The words I would have used to explain those feelings weren’t the most memorable. But I can recall the emotions rather well right now.”

“Really?” Bruce asked, voice lower than before. “What words would you use now?”

Jeremiah took a deep breath and decided to just get it out as quickly as possible. “Have you ever had something that you’re terrified of losing because you know it’s constantly on the verge of disappearing? And deep down all you want to do is keep it in a sort of treasure chest to protect it but you know you can’t because it’s at its most beautiful out in the world, surrounded by the life and energy it creates just by being in a room? So you let it go as much as it wants, smiling as it walks away, but internally, you’re praying it’ll come back? And you can’t explain exactly why it means so much to you because those sorts of things were never made to be expressed with words, yet somehow your world starts to shift around it? And suddenly it becomes the center of your universe, no matter how hard you try to push it away, and somehow the only thing you find yourself needing is its presence?”

He had definitely come on too strongly. Why did he have to run his mouth so much? Bruce was staring fixedly at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Jeremiah didn’t know what else to say.

Luckily, Bruce spoke. “Yes. I think...I might know what you’re talking about.”

Sighing, Jeremiah said, “ _ You, _ Bruce, I’m talking about you. You’ve somehow managed to become my world and I have no idea how it happened.”

“I suppose that’s what happens when you make-out at a nightclub, work for the guy’s company, let him take you to a strip club, investigate the mafia for him,  _ and _ get a speeding ticket on your way to nurse him back to health uninvited. That’s commitment, Miah,” Bruce smiled smugly, throwing his arms around Jeremiah’s neck. 

“You forgot about the breakfast fiasco,” he reminded him, placing his hands on Bruce’s waist.

“Are you still angry about that?”

“Not as angry as I should be.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Jeremiah couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward, eyes closed, only to be stopped by a finger and the excited whisper of, “Wait, wait, Miah do the thing.”

Confused, he opened his eyes and asked, “What thing?”

“Y’know…” Bruce nodded to his desk, eyes bright.

The “thing” dawning on him, Jeremiah was caught somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle as he released Bruce with one arm. Sweeping the metal surface clear of its contents, he lifted Bruce and placed him on top of the desk. The younger boy, finally content, pulled Jeremiah close to him and pressed a soft kiss against his lips.

“I missed you,” Bruce hummed after a few minutes of this.

“If you missed me so much, try not to run away for a week next time, hm?”

Bruce pressed his lips to Jeremiah’s again. “Only if you give me enough incentive to stay.”

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “And what would convince billionaire brat Bruce Wayne to stick around boring shut-in Jeremiah Valeska?”

Bruce raked his fingers through Jeremiah’s hair, tugging as he answered, “I could think of a few things.” He eyed Jeremiah, smirking, then added, “But not right now. We have work to do. I meant it when I said you’re coming to that benefit with me. And I found out that Sofia had no connection with the thefts.”

“But I thought you said-”

“She stole the money, yes. But both of the devices in development that were noted as missing had no relation to her activities. It’s unfortunate, certainly, that our lead’s gone cold. We’ll just have to pick up somewhere else.”

With a sigh, Jeremiah responded, “I’m assuming that means  _ I’ll _ have to pick up somewhere else.”

“Don’t be so presumptuous,” Bruce said, tapping him on the nose. “I’m going to help you. Lucius is going to place me in the engineering department.”

Trying not to come across as exasperated as he felt, he asked, “ _ Which _ engineering department?”

“Whichever one those devices came from.” For the owner of Wayne Enterprises, Bruce knew next to nothing about the levels of complexity within his company.

“I’d assume either the mechanical or chemical departments. I can’t say for certain.”

“Well, which one do you work in?”

“ _ I  _ am a freelance engineer. I don’t work in any of your company’s departments because I’m not foolish enough to sell my soul to the corporate elite. However, most of the projects I pick up from Wayne Enterprises fall under the jurisdiction of the mechanical or electrical departments. I don’t technically have the qualifications to work on chemical projects, but I understand the principles involved in chemical engineering. I just didn’t want to return to school for another degree. Do you want a cup of tea? I’d offer you brandy but that’s the last thing you need in your system.”

Bruce nodded, lost in thought. “So if I can trace the manufacturer of both items I could potentially come up with a culprit…”

“I thought you already knew where they’d come from, as you commissioned the locking mechanism and you were sent reports listing the missing items?” Jeremiah inquired as he walked over to the table sitting in the corner of the room. He flicked the electric kettle on and pulled two mugs from the cupboard above.

“The reports were forwarded to me, and much of the information was redacted, including half of the products those departments were developing. I was so focused on the idea that Sofia was stealing from me, that I hadn’t properly inspected the reports. Now that I think about it, I can’t even remember who the email was from that sent them to me. I hadn’t told anyone I was investigating the company, and this was long before I’d met you. Could I use your computer to revisit the email?”

Dropping a teabag in each mug, Jeremiah replied, “Of course. Just try not to touch too much, I have important files pulled up that I don’t need you accidentally erasing.”

Bruce swung his body around on the nearly vacant desk, slipping off it into the chair on the other side and started logging into his email. “Don’t mind me, just touching everything,” he teased upon seeing Jeremiah’s anxious glance over.

“Don’t be a brat,” he snapped, setting a steaming mug next to him.

“It’s part of my public persona, you can’t expect me to change at the flick of a switch,” Bruce shrugged, scrolling through his inbox.

Jeremiah said nothing in response, and simply sipped his own cup of oolong.

“Here, this was the email both reports were attached to.” Bruce motioned him over, pointing at the monitor. The email itself was short, reading:

 

_ Dear Mr. Wayne, _

 

_ As per company policy, our department is contacting you in regards to the development of Project N.  We have been instructed to provide you with a list of assets both in processing and completed (see the first attached file). Storage locations have been noted for each asset. Upon request, we have also acknowledged discrepancies within our system indicating that two strictly confidential devices cannot be located at this time. We had allocated six weeks to recover the above-mentioned items, but regretfully, could not. Therefore, in accordance with Section 11.8.B of Wayne Industries Developmental Procedures and Corporate Protocols, we are informing you of the misplaced assets, elaborated upon in the attached second document. We will relay any further information related to both items. Thank you for your time. _

 

_ -Charles Nigaff _

_ Head of Interdepartmental Research and Post-Planning Development _

 

“It almost sounds as though he doesn’t want to take any responsibility for the misplaced devices,” Jeremiah mused.

“He’s a corporate man, of course he doesn’t. The business world is just a game of avoidance of accountability. And he knows it would take far too much investigation to pin the blame on him.” Bruce was glaring at the email as if it offended him.

“Simply out of curiosity, what is ‘Project N’?”

“That’s the project I commissioned. It’s short for Project Nightwing. Essentially, it’s a program responsible for creating covert technology and weaponry. I’m not entirely sure which department it ended up in.” 

He said this as if it were the most normal thing in the world, but Jeremiah wasn’t quite following.

“And why exactly did you commission a program to design undercover technology? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

Bruce met him with a steady gaze. “I used to be very devoted to the protection of Gotham’s citizens. I wanted to unroot the crime that’s taken a hold of the city, and I wanted to do it in a way where no one could know I had any part in it. That was my goal. And I did everything within my power to realize it. This past week I’ve been gone was me returning to that goal. I was back on the streets. It felt like home. The laws are different out there, no matter what Jim Gordon or the GCPD says. Everything is spontaneous. I need to be as prepared as possible for any situation. That’s why I commissioned Project N, with Lucius’ help.”

“You’ve been using your company to engineer devices so you can sneak around Gotham and...attack criminals?” Jeremiah couldn’t believe he actually had to ask that question.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I track down criminals, either through word on the street or my own investigations, who aren’t getting the attention they deserve from the GCPD, because apparently if it’s not blatantly direct homicide, they can’t handle it. I have clothing that was specifically designed to help me navigate and blend in with Gotham’s rooftops, and I conceal my face. Like I said, no one can know that Bruce Wayne is hunting the city’s worst criminals in his free time. I’m hoping that telling you isn’t a mistake.”

Jeremiah did his best to picture it: Bruce dressed head to toe in black, running across rooftops and fighting criminals. He just couldn’t do it. The Bruce he knew liked black, sure, but he was also very fond of glitter, strippers, and cocktails. Perhaps he didn’t know Bruce as well as he should.

“I have no one to reveal your secret to. It’s just...a bit difficult to comprehend. And this next question may come across as insulting, so please forgive me, but how do you deal with them?”

Bruce stared as if it were obvious. “I fight them. And then I make sure they understand why I’m there. Too many thieves, murderers, and rapists go unpunished. They’ve forgotten that consequences exist. I’m there to remind them.”

“ _ You _ fight them?” If  _ Jeremiah  _ could easily pick Bruce up, there was no way he could take down lethal criminals by himself.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Bruce asked, a smirk growing on his face.

“Frankly, yes, after seeing that Thomas Elliot managed to incapacitate you.”

“I was drunk and careless. I already had my ass chewed out by Alfred for that. Would you like a proper demonstration?” The brunette almost looked like he wanted an excuse to let off some steam. Which is why Jeremiah responded,

“Sure. I’m rather curious, after all. Besides, if I understand exactly how apt you are at combat, I may be able to devise more...unorthodox means of investigation.” Jeremiah turned from him and pressed a bronze button on his console. “Ecco, please report to my office.”

Bruce stood up and joined him on the other side of the room. “Isn’t Ecco your assistant?”

“Yes. She handles my day-to-day tasks and acts in my place as a proxy when possible. It’s easier than trying to explain myself every time I leave the house.” 

“Oh, that’s how you get away with only entering the real world every three months.”

Jeremiah nodded and watched the door, taking another sip from his mug.

Soon enough, it slid open, revealing Ecco standing with stiff posture as always. She seemed especially rigid at the moment, however. As she walked in, her body barely moved. Her dirty blonde hair was swept back in an equally as inflexible ponytail. She didn’t spare Bruce a single glance. “Mr. Valeska. What can I do for you?”

 

…

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

He instantly disliked her. Even when all she’d done was lead him through the bunker, something about her irritated him. Bruce wasn’t sure exactly  _ why. _ Maybe it was her severe attitude or stern expression. Maybe it was the way she didn’t even acknowledge Bruce’s presence. Or maybe it was the way she gazed expectantly at Jeremiah like he was her entire reason for existing. And the barely-contained anger that blossomed on her face as she realized Jeremiah wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at Bruce.

“As I’m sure you know, Ecco, this is Bruce Wayne. The pair of you haven’t been properly introduced. My apologies.”

Being the high-society man he was, Bruce set aside whatever distaste he felt towards the woman and extended his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Ecco.”

She accepted his handshake far more firmly than expected. It felt like she was trying to break his fingers as she smiled softly. “Likewise, Mr. Wayne.”

“Ecco, I’d like you to engage in Combat Scenario Three with Bruce. I want to evaluate his abilities.”

Bruce didn’t miss the pleasant surprise in her voice as she answered, “Gladly, Mr. Valeska. In the corridor, I presume?”

“Yes, that’ll do just fine.”

“Am I allowed to know what Combat Scenario Three is?” Bruce asked, already mentally preparing for whatever they’d had in mind.

Jeremiah stepped into the hallway and motioned for them to follow. “It’s the protocol I’ve instructed Ecco to employ in the event of an unarmed intruder with malicious intent. She won’t try to kill you; her aim is solely to incapacitate.”   


The ghost of a smile on Ecco’s face told a different story. In fact, she barely gave Bruce enough time to react as she took two strides towards him and aimed a hit at his cheek. Flashing up his arm, he blocked the punch and spun to the side, trying to place distance between the two of them so he could analyze her weaknesses.

They both had something to prove. Bruce needed to show Jeremiah that he was capable of being a part of his investigation. Ecco needed to prove she was better than Bruce. But her point was much more personal; Bruce could use that.

She was circling him, no doubt inspecting every inch of his body and psyche available to her just as he had been. Without warning, she charged him again, grabbing ahold of his arm and kneeing him in the stomach. A dull pain erupted there, but Bruce barely registered it. He yanked his arm back and turned Ecco’s body so she was facing away from him. Locking an arm around her neck, he whispered raggedly, “It must be so painful, being here with him every day, safe in your idea that you’re the only person he trusts...Only to find out his love for you is brotherly at best, and more than likely simply dismissive tolerance. Does he know? Of course he knows you’d do anything for him. But does he know  _ why?” _ Ecco was wriggling in his grasp, elbows flailing as he held her in place.  _ “Should I tell him?” _

Obviously Bruce would never say anything to Jeremiah, but Ecco didn’t know that. She froze instantly. Bruce loosened his grip around her neck, but didn’t release her completely. And he was right not to. As soon as Ecco felt the slack in his grip, she clutched his arm again and slammed him into the concrete wall behind them. The back of his skull immediately began to ache. Raising a leg, he kicked her against the opposite wall. Finally, a use for these narrow corridors.

Jeremiah stood in the doorway to his office, observing them with apparent intrigue. Ecco was breathing heavily; she tossed her head up to match Bruce’s stare and pushed off the wall. Meeting her with another hit, he caught an elbow to the shoulder while she reeled back to clutch her jaw. She was practically snarling now, a strange expression on her typically stoic face. A hand flashed out to wrap around his throat. Alfred used to try this tactic all the time; Bruce spun away from her grasping claws and grabbed the hand, pulling her with him and swiftly knocking the wind out of her with a kick.

“I think that’s enough,” Jeremiah interrupted softly. “I wouldn’t want the two of you grievously injuring one another.” Bruce walked over to Ecco and extended his hand to help her up. Completely ignoring him, she stood and brushed past Bruce to stand in front of Jeremiah. “Well fought, my dear,” he praised kindly. Bruce felt something stir in him upon hearing Jeremiah’s fond tone be directed towards someone else, but he chose to simply wait. Besides, the pain in his head was growing and he didn’t need to worsen it by overthinking.

“May I do anything else for you, Mr. Valeska?” Ecco’s obvious adoration for him dripped from every word. It made Bruce sick just listening.

“No, thank you Ecco. I have everything I need. Please, get some rest. It’s late.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll go prepare your room for the evening. Is…” she glanced at Bruce with admittedly well-concealed distaste. “Does Mr. Wayne need a room as well?”

Jeremiah answered before Bruce even had a chance to speak. “Yes, if you would. One of the guest rooms in Sector D will do just fine.”

“But, Mr. Valeska, your-”

“I’m well aware, Ecco. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Yes, sir.” Ecco bowed her head and took off down the corridor, blonde ponytail swinging behind her.

As soon as she was out of sight, Bruce laid his arms on Jeremiah’s shoulder and rested his head on them. “So, did I pass?”

“You were able to hold your own against her, which is no small feat. So, yes, you passed. Are you hurt?” Jeremiah asked, shrugging Bruce off him to inspect his face and arms.

Bruce swatted his hands away. He didn’t need to be babied. “I’m fine. She hates me, by the way.”

Jeremiah looked confused. “What do you mean? Why would she hate you?”

Her secret wasn’t Bruce’s to tell, so he just replied, “I just get the feeling she doesn’t like me. Which is understandable, I suppose. My personality can come across as rather abrasive sometimes.”

“Ecco doesn’t ever seem like she truly  _ likes _ anyone. I wouldn’t take it personally.”  _ She certainly likes  _ you.

“You’re right. I’m probably just being too sensitive. So, what’s in Sector D, and should I be concerned?”

Jeremiah chuckled lightly. “That’s the area of the maze where I keep most of the living spaces. Ecco was only hesitant because I usually don’t allow guests in that region since that’s where my own room resides.”

Bruce’s interest was piqued. “I’d heard this place was a maze, but I didn’t know it was true. Why turn your house into a maze, though? It’s already three stories underground.”

“As a kid, I was fascinated with them. And after my brother decided to murder every relative he had, I decided this was my best form of protection. I know it’s kind of odd. Please forgive the complexity. I’ll lead you to your room, if you’d like.”

“You always sound so cute when you’re being all self-conscious. But there’s no need to apologize. Please, show me the way,” Bruce smiled, following closely behind Jeremiah as he began leading him through the twists and turns of the maze.

There was no way Bruce would’ve been able to find his way around himself. Every inch of wall, floor, and ceiling was the same. Luckily, Jeremiah seemed to know exactly where he was going. He led him down another corridor, and came to a halt in front of a panel of concrete. Perplexed, Bruce observed as Jeremiah slid his fingers between the two panels and pushed a discreet button. A keypad of sorts emerged from the wall. Pressing another button, he stated clearly, “Jeremiah, 151.” To Bruce’s amazement, the wall itself descended into the floor, fitting neatly as if it had always been there, revealing a sparse bedroom. 

“I noticed that Ecco said something similar to the keypad outside your office. Are you each assigned a number?” Bruce asked as he walked in the room, taking in the stark walls, twin bed, and oak dresser. A lone wooden chair sat in the corner of the room, but Bruce decided the bed looked more comfortable and situated himself on it.

“No, the numbers pertain to each room. And only Ecco and myself know the order. There are over five hundred rooms in the entire building. Most of them are vacant,” Jeremiah replied, following him in.

“Fascinating,” Bruce murmured. “I hope someday you’ll let me examine the blueprints drawn up when you were doing construction on this place.”

Jeremiah smiled. “Perhaps tomorrow morning, if we have the time. You should get to bed, too. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m not tired yet.” Bruce wasn’t sure why he lied: he felt incredibly drained, both emotionally and physically. But he didn’t want Jeremiah to go quite so soon.

“Do you need a bedtime story?” the engineer teased, sitting next to him.

“No, I need you to finish what you started earlier.”

An eyebrow raised, Jeremiah answered, “I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to.”

“Gallant gesture? Desk? Bribing me not to run off? Any of that ringing a bell?”

“Now that you mention it, I think I do recall something of that nature, yes. But you told me no, so I’m respecting your boundaries.” His faint smirk and passive-aggressive shrug were infuriating.

Swinging a leg over Jeremiah’s lap he said, “How noble. Now I want you to disrespect them.”

“Well, now you’re being rather fickle, and I can’t guarantee you even know what you’re saying at this point. I think you’re just confused about what you want, Bruce, which is perfectly normal, and-”

Bruce cupped Jeremiah’s chin. “If you don’t kiss me right now, I’m going home. And erasing every file on your laptop on my way out.”

Jeremiah gasped in shock. “You wouldn’t.”

“Alright, I guess that’s that then,” Bruce decided, moving off of Jeremiah and getting to his feet. A hand caught his wrist, however, and pulled him back.

“On second thought, I’m quite fond of that laptop’s contents,” Jeremiah said nonchalantly, tugging Bruce toward him. 

“Oh, are you? I suppose you should’ve thought of that, then, before you decided to-” Bruce was interrupted by Jeremiah’s grip moving from his wrist to his collar, yanking him down to meet his lips. About time, too. Bruce kissed him eagerly, wasting no time in parting his lips and meshing his tongue with Jeremiah’s. God, the past week had been miserable without him. Since when had he become so dependent on the twin brother of Jerome Valeska for emotional support and physical affection? Pushing the thought away, he returned to straddling the older boy, kneeling on the firm mattress. Jeremiah’s hands grasped his hips as they fought for dominance in the kiss. A piercing bite on his lip subdued Bruce, and a sharp intake of breath escaped him. Fingertips scaling his body, Jeremiah gripped him by the hair, breaking the kiss to expose his neck. Bruce was breathing heavily, electricity dancing through him at the feeling of lips brushing against his skin, tracing their way down to his throat. Jeremiah held him in place, sucking a red mark where he knew Bruce wouldn’t be able to cover it.

“For...not wanting to kiss me...just a moment ago,” Bruce murmured, enraptured by the feeling, “You’re all of a sudden...pretty aggressive.”

“What can I say, I changed my mind,” Jeremiah said against his neck. “It may have something to do with how irresistibly pretty you are, Bruce Wayne.”

Every time Jeremiah called him pretty, it sent shivers through him. Before meeting him,  _ pretty _ just wasn’t a word Bruce associated with himself. Now, it was in his top-ten favorite adjectives. And since Jeremiah was rarely outright affectionate, let alone the instigator, Bruce was fairly surprised when his hands fell from his hair to the zipper of his jacket, mouth seeking Bruce’s as he removed the coat. Heart racing, he clung tighter to the older boy’s frame, sucking on his bottom lip before colliding together once more. He tried to take charge of the kiss, but Jeremiah jerked his hair again, forcing his tongue in his mouth as Bruce yelped. Astonishing him further, he felt the brush of fingertips along the hem of his t-shirt. They twisted the fabric in their grip; Jeremiah pulled away from him long enough to raise a questioning eyebrow to which Bruce promptly nodded before returning to his desperate assault on the engineer’s lips. He wanted them to bruise, to reveal what had happened because he knew neither of them would ever say a thing. Lifting his arms, he allowed Jeremiah to slide the black shirt over his head. Bruce attempted to do the same for him, but received a stern  _ tsk. _

“You hypocrite,” Bruce accused, pulling out of his grasp to stand. “Why am I the only one who’s getting undressed?”

“Perhaps if you acquire the ability to be patient, you’ll find out,” Jeremiah suggested, still sitting passively on the bed.

That intrigued him. Nonetheless, Bruce muttered, “I’m always patient, you just measure time from the perspective of a rock.”

“Bruce,” Jeremiah chided, slowly trying to guide him back to his lap. “Rocks don’t measure time, they haven’t got the intellectual awareness.”

“I guess that’s one thing you and rocks have in common, then.”

The slight didn’t seem to go over well with Jeremiah. “Oh, really?” he asked, tone frigid. Bruce immediately regretted the insult. Suddenly, the engineer got to his feet and stepped behind him, shoving Bruce onto the mattress. Strong hands gripped his shoulders as Jeremiah’s tongue grazed over a sensitive spot on his chest. Teeth latched on and Bruce released a breathy noise, twisting the cotton sheets. “Apologize,” was all Jeremiah said over Bruce’s soft whimpers.

Usually, Bruce would just do as he asked. But this was all becoming too much fun to end so quickly; something about Jeremiah’s entire demeanor changed when he got the chance to have Bruce to himself. The shift was captivating. So, instead, he almost imperceptibly shook his head.

Calmly, Jeremiah murmured, “Of course you’re going to be a brat about it. Why would I expect anything else?” One of the hands leaving bruises across his shoulder began to agonizingly dance down his body, barely brushing against his exposed torso for longer than a moment. A pianist’s finger hooked in the belt loop of his jeans. This-this was forward. And Bruce was far too sober. He’d never gone that far with any guy without at least three rounds in him. But the way those turquoise eyes flickered up to meet Bruce’s hazel ones made him feel safe. He blinked, biting his lip. Jeremiah huffed, as if he were frustrated with something. What did he do?

The hand moved to grasp his zipper; the long-awaited friction had Bruce involuntarily buck his hips, chasing that sensation. A rapid inhale came from above him; what was going through that brilliant mind of his?

“You never did apologize,” Jeremiah reminded him. 

Bruce just wanted him to get to it, so he complied. “I’m sorry, Miah! You’re very intelligent, one of the smartest people I know! Please…”

“I’m glad you think so.” He tugged on the zipper and pushed against Bruce’s chest, holding him in place as he slid off his jeans. And then...he was gone. Alone and almost fully unclothed, Bruce sat up in confusion.

“Miah, what are you-”

A flying object hit him, a white shirt landing in his lap. Jeremiah stood by the dresser, clearly trying his best not to smirk.

“It’s obvious you’ve had the same clothes on for days. No offense, of course, but when Bruce Wayne has dirt on his jeans, it’s rather telling. Now you can get changed and go to bed. You must be tired after getting so worked up.” The lazy arrogance in the way Jeremiah leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, was infuriating. It reminded Bruce of himself, and the fact that he’d just been played. But two are needed to waltz, after all.

“I appreciate the gesture, thank you. But how much restraint it must have taken for you to pass on such an exclusive opportunity, well, I commend you, Jeremiah Valeska.” Bruce shimmied the shirt over his head; it was far too large for him. He couldn’t tell if he was angry with the engineer or not.

“Exclusive?” Jeremiah snorted. “I swear, I breathe around you too long and you get horny.” While not entirely untrue, the comment still stung.

“What makes you think that has anything to do with  _ you? _ I wouldn’t get too cocky.”

“I haven’t seen you senselessly throw yourself at anyone else in awhile, so I think it might be me.”

“Senselessly?” Bruce asked, affronted. “Do you think I’m being senseless when I’m with you?”

“I-no, that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure sounded like you meant it,” he replied coldly.

“I was  _ joking,  _ Bruce. I know it doesn’t happen often, so I understand if you’re confused by the notion.”

“Stop being a pretentious asshat. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Fantastic. If only you’d been tired fifteen minutes ago-”

“Just get out, okay?” Bruce was suddenly furious.

Jeremiah lingered by the doorway looking torn. “Okay. I’m right down the hall if you need anything. I’ll have Ecco leave the safety lights on…”

“Peachy. Have fun. Say hello to her for me, will you?”

The comment seemed to go over Jeremiah’s head. “Um, sure. Look, I’m sorry about-”

“Go, Jeremiah.”

Swallowing, he nodded and left the room, flicking two switches as he went. The overhead light faded and the panel clicked back into place. Momentary fear washed over Bruce. What if he couldn’t get out? He reminded himself that Jeremiah had flipped a switch to make the door shut, so if he wanted to leave, he could just do the same to open it.

Soft voices could be heard from down the hall. Jeremiah must be talking to Ecco. Frustrated, Bruce pulled the stiff pillow over his head to try and block out the noise. He had no right to hate her. Technically, Jeremiah didn’t even how she felt. But seeing them together...it looked so seamless. So easy. They’ve known each other for years, according to what Jeremiah had told him. And they fit so effortlessly. They were both quiet, reserved, and intelligent. Bruce from a year ago would’ve stood a much better chance. 

He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t stop his wandering mind. Had Jeremiah really had second thoughts about...whatever he’d planned to do? Or was that his plan all along? Knowing the engineer, it was probably the latter, which made him even angrier. And admittedly, somewhat embarrassed. Bruce would’ve let him do whatever he wanted, and Jeremiah knew that and took advantage of it. Sure, it wasn’t for a malicious purpose, but he still didn’t like being toyed with. That was what had really made him upset, not the comments that followed. He should’ve just asked Bruce to go to bed.

Casting his thoughts back, he realized he had bigger things to worry about. Somebody was clearly stealing his company’s wares from right under his nose, and his number one suspect had admitted to it. Except she was only responsible for half of the thefts, meaning there was still someone out there using  _ his _ project. For what, exactly, Bruce still didn’t know. He hoped the answer would become clear to him once he investigated this Charles Nigaff person.

Eventually, he got under the covers. The bed wasn’t very comfortable, but after sleeping on Selina’s ratty couch, it felt like heaven. He still felt bad about leaving her so suddenly after all she’d done for him this past week. He should check in on her again soon. But it had been an impossibly long day. Bruce felt exhaustion weighing him down through his toes and fingertips. After sorting through all his thoughts, all Bruce wanted to do was drift off into another hopefully blissful sleep. Closing his eyes, his mind began to still, and soon enough, he fell into the gambling embrace of dreams.

 

…

Waves of green light cut across his vision, undulating against the stone walls. A body was floating in the liquid the light was emanating from, eyes still open in an everlasting expression of shock. Tearing his gaze from Alfred’s corpse, Bruce was instead forced to look at the man before him. Ra’s al Ghul smiled wickedly, tossing the dagger between his hands. 

Breaking from the usual course of his nightmare, Ra’s rushed him. Bruce felt a sharp pain dig into his back as he was pushed against the pit where Alfred laid. Terror washed over him; he had no idea what was going to happen next. An involuntary shout of pain escaped Bruce as the dagger tore into his stomach. Ra’s gripped him, still grinning like a madman, plunging the blade through his flesh again and again. Finally, after hours of agony, his breathing began to still. Bruce’s eyes had long since shut tightly. He couldn’t feel his fingertips, much less move. Once more, he drifted away.

Bruce woke up in a cold sweat. Blinking in the darkness, fear gripped him as quickly as it had gone. Was he dead? His eyes sought something,  _ anything, _ to tell him he was still alive.

There. A blinking white light displaying the time:  3:11. Bruce closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Realizing his mistake, he reopened them. All he could see was that sickly green light and Ra’s inhuman grin. He suddenly felt incredibly unsafe in his room. Bruce got to his feet and practically ran to the panel with both switches before remembering. He couldn’t go wake Jeremiah up. He’d acted so childish earlier and sent him away without a word. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped, either, and Jeremiah’s arms sounded like the safest place in the world right now. Deciding he’d rather deal with the consequences of a disgruntled Miah, he flipped the second switch, relief flooding him as the panel slid downward, exposing the corridor beyond.

There was only one issue now: Bruce had no idea where to go. Jeremiah had said he was right down the hall, but which way? Apparently he’d neglected to ask Ecco to leave the lights on like he’d said he would. Or she’d just forgotten that particular order. After a moment of straining, he spotted a patch of light a ways to his left, and chose to start there.

He tiptoed carefully down the corridor. The silence of the bunker was oppressive. As Bruce got closer, he realized the light was coming from a room that had been left open. Desperately hoping it was Jeremiah’s, he picked up the pace.

Upon approaching the entrance, a dull thudding noise became apparent to him. Peeking inside, Bruce saw pretty much the last person he wanted to right now. Ecco stood in the far corner of the room, beating the shit out of some sort of dummy. Every hit she landed was somehow perfectly precise yet powerful; she was definitely winning. But if she could fight this well, how come Bruce had been able to best her earlier? Captivated, he watched her for a few minutes, peering around the wall. Eventually, he came to a conclusion: she had to have let him win. But why?

A low rumble sounded through the room. It took Bruce too long to realize it came from his stomach, and much too long to notice Ecco staring back at him. Of all the times he’d forfeited dinner, his body had to go and betray him now.

“Can I help you, Mr. Wayne?” Ecco asked, remaining where she was. “Would you like me to direct you back to your room? Or is your dresser vacant?”

“I-what?”

“Pants, Mr. Wayne. You’re missing pants.”

Glancing down like an idiot, Bruce noticed he was, in fact, still only wearing the large t-shirt Jeremiah had chucked at him earlier. And he knew for a fact the shirt didn’t cover the hickey that must have blossomed on his neck.

“Oh. You’re right.”  _ Yeah, Bruce, you’re really an intellectual force to be reckoned with,  _ he thought sardonically. He self-consciously tugged down the hem of the shirt, and then thought,  _ Fuck it. I’m already here. _

“You fight extraordinarily well, Ecco. Why did you let me win?”

Unblinkingly, she replied, “Because Mr. Valeska wanted you to win. So you won.”

“But isn’t that doing a bit of a disservice to yourself? If you know you’re capable, then you should be able to show it.”

“What would I have gained from displaying my abilities in that scenario? Mr. Valeska would have been disappointed, you would’ve been embarrassed, and I’d have felt guilty. Your victory ensured the most positive outcome. There’s nothing more to it.”

“But now Jeremiah is going to underestimate you, and it seems like he already does plenty of that.” Ecco’s eyebrows went up ever so fractionally, daring him to continue. Luckily, Bruce was nothing if not daring. And he felt like he had to say this now or he never would. “I shouldn’t have played a dirty trick like that when we were fighting. Your relationship with Jeremiah is none of my business, and it’s shameful that I even considered using it against you. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know I regret it, and I’m sorry.”

She stared at him for another minute before answering, “Your apology is accepted, Mr. Wayne.”

“Please call me Bruce. The formalities are a bit odd to me, as I haven’t done anything to earn them.”

Ecco crossed the room hesitantly. “You’re a strange boy, Bruce.” She paused, as if she were thinking something over. “Mr. Valeska’s room is at the end of this hall to the left. You’ll need a code to get in. I’ll take you.”

Confused, Bruce asked, “Why would you do that for me?”

“I’m his assistant; it’s my job. Besides,” she added, “You’re shaking. I believe you have a good reason for visiting him at this hour.” Ecco pulled her ponytail up, twisting it into a bun before stepping out of the room. Bruce followed close behind her wordlessly.

At the end of the hall, as he’d watched Jeremiah do, Ecco pressed a button between two of the panels. An identical keypad emerged, to which she stated, “Ecco, 101.”

“Welcome, Miss Ecco,” the keypad replied. The panel before them disappeared as seamlessly as the others; the room beyond was dark. Bruce could make out vague suggestions of furniture, more than his guest room had.

“There,” Ecco said quietly, already turning back.

“Wait!” he whispered. “Thank you, for everything, I mean.”

She said nothing in response, but nodded to show she’d heard. And then she was gone.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce stepped into the room. He couldn’t quite say why the idea of being in here intimidated him; it just felt like he was invading Jeremiah’s privacy.

Speaking of Jeremiah, Bruce could just make out muffled snores coming from the far side of the room. The sounds caused an inexplicable smile to grace his face. Those little huffs made the whole situation less tense.

Cautiously, he made his way through the room, feeling around for any furniture or things he might bump into, using Jeremiah’s snores as a guide. It took him a century, but he finally grasped something that seemed to be a blanket. Checking just in case, Bruce groped around in the darkness a moment longer until his hands landed on an object that was definitely a muscular arm. Now that he was here though, he wasn’t sure what to do. Should he wake Jeremiah up? Should he just crawl in and pray he didn’t notice?

After a second of deliberation, he opted for the second choice. It had a wider margin of error, at the very least. Opening the covers as little as possible, he slid underneath them. Bruce had never been more aware of every awkward limb he owned until this encounter.

An abrupt break in snores told Bruce he hadn’t been as sneaky as he’d thought. Jeremiah jolted upright, grabbing an item to his left. A click flooded the room with soft amber light.

“It’s just me, Miah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, I just...I couldn’t sleep.”

The engineer rubbed his eyes and then his temple. Glaring at Bruce through his fingers, he said, “You’re going to be the death of me, I swear. Do you realize how late it is?”

Guilt washed through him. “Yes. I’m sorry. This place is, well, unfamiliar to me, and I…”

“You what?” Jeremiah asked, tone harsher than usual. He ruffled his auburn hair, waiting for Bruce’s answer.

“I-I had a nightmare and the one thought that calmed me down was the fact that you were here. But I shouldn’t have woken you up, that was selfish. I’m sorry.” He quickly got to his feet, already turning to leave.

A firm hand clutched his wrist. The feeling was starting to become familiar. “Bruce,” Jeremiah said, voice much softer than it had been a minute ago. “Come back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’ve just never been woken up by someone else in my room before. You surprised me. Come here.”

Not one to be tricked twice, Bruce asked, “Really?”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “Yes, really. Now get in here before I change my mind.”

Unbelieving of his own success, Bruce got back under the covers. The same click resounded through the room and the warm light faded.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jeremiah murmured to the ceiling.

“Not really, but everyone tells me I should. They usually don’t affect me anymore; the only reason this one freaked me out so much was because it was different from all the others.”

“How so? If you want to tell me, of course.”

“It was...instead of me reliving the night I...killed Ra’s, it was him killing me, after he’d already killed Alfred. It wouldn’t have been that terrible in comparison, but it took forever, and I could feel every second of it. Every time he lifted the dagger, a new rush of blood would pump from my heart, and then he’d stab me over and over again, draining my body of each drop until finally I got to die. It was…”

“Terrible,” Jeremiah finished for him. “Horrendous. Agonizing. You don’t deserve to be wracked by these nightmares every time you close your eyes. You should never have to say that you ‘finally  _ got _ to die,’ Bruce.”

“But it felt like such a weight off my shoulders. If I was dead, he couldn’t hurt me. And I couldn’t hurt other people. I mean, technically, I should’ve died five years ago. If I’m still here, it means there’s something I need to do. I keep trying to figure out what that is, but every time I act on it, somebody else ends up getting hurt, and too often they’re people I care about. I just don’t know what the world wants from me, but as long as I’m still alive, I’m going to keep trying to figure it out. All I can really do is continue to perform enough acts of good to outweigh the terrible things I’ve done. For now, I’m just going to let the nightmares serve as reminders until they stop for good.”

“Your courage...I think it may be unmatched in the city of Gotham.”

Bruce smiled. “That’s not true. Gotham is corrupt, but there are still good people here.  _ Brave _ people. And I think they’re doing what I’m trying to do: find their voice, and use it to combat the darkness nestled in the streets. Hopefully, we can all learn to speak up soon.” He paused, then added, “I think Detective Gordon and Alfred we’re right. I  _ do _ feel better.”

“I’m glad. Thank you for letting me listen,” Jeremiah said.

“Thanks for being willing to listen.”

They were silent, both staring at the ceiling. Some of the heaviness had left Bruce. The world didn’t look as bleak as it had half an hour ago.

The silence broke as Jeremiah tentatively asked, “Could I…?” Bruce felt him roll over beside him.

“Could you what, Miah?” he murmured, starting to feel drowsy.

“You know…” An arm hesitantly placed itself around his waist.

Laughing lightly, Bruce rolled onto his side and pulled Jeremiah’s arm all the way around him. “Yes, you can.”

Looping his other arm underneath Bruce, he held him closer. His traitorous heart fluttered a bit as he nestled against Jeremiah’s chest, trying not to cling too tightly to his shirt.

“I...I really missed you,” Bruce mumbled.

“I missed you, too. Now try and get some sleep. And if you have another nightmare, promise you’ll wake me up, okay?”

“Not if you’re going to be all grumpy with me again,” he teased, closing his eyes.

“If you promise to wake me, I promise I won’t be ‘grumpy’, as you so eloquently put it. Fair?”

“Mhm. Goodnight, Miah.”

“Goodnight, Bruce,” he answered, stroking his hair softly.

It wasn’t long before Bruce drifted off to sleep. He’d been right: Jeremiah’s arms really did feel like the safest place in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially at 101 pages! This chapter is definitely the longest in the fic so far, but it took less time to write somehow. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed! Please feel free to leave any comments, criticism, or even predictions about what you think might be happening! Thanks for reading!


	10. Vanilla Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of domestic boys before everything, well...I guess you'll see soon :)

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Jeremiah woke up with a start. Something felt off. Since when did he begin sleeping on his side? He tried to roll onto his back, but realized his arm was trapped under something, something far heavier than a pillow. Staring at the object in the darkness, he could make out a head of dark curls atop an elegant porcelain face. And then the night’s events came flooding back. Bruce. Bruce Wayne was in his bed.  _ Bruce. Wayne. Was in his bed. _ He looked so innocent as he slept. The anger and hardness fell away to simply reveal a young man, untarnished yet by the roughness of the world.

Vaguely, Jeremiah wondered what time it was. His 6:30 alarm had yet to go off, so it must be quite early. Glancing to his other side, his clock read 5:42. So he’d been asleep for about an hour and a half. Fantastic. Well, there was no way he’d be falling back asleep, he never did. Should he just lay here until his alarm rang? But that would wake Bruce, and he most certainly needed the sleep.

So, for the first time in eleven years, Jeremiah reached over and switched the alarm off. A strange sensation washed over him. He wondered what other changes having Bruce in his life would bring about. Jeremiah supposed that would depend on how long he remained in his life. Suddenly, he wanted to hold Bruce very closely, and so he did just that.

Bruce made a slight “mh” sound as Jeremiah wrapped his arms around him, but didn’t wake. Instead, the brunette just nuzzled closer to him. What exactly had he meant when he said he knew how Jeremiah felt? Obviously, it meant his feelings were reciprocated, but what does that entail? Are they just friends with casual mutual feelings of attraction? Or are they supposed to label it or something?

_ Label it for who, Miah? Your own ego? Who else is even going to know?  _ His inner dialogue had a point. No one else even knew of or cared about their relationship, whatever it was. Besides Ecco, of course, but she had no one to tell. Oh, and Bruce’s butler, but he doubted he was aware of the exact nature of it. 

All of this internal musing wasn’t getting him anywhere. Jeremiah had been awake for almost ten minutes now, and he was itching to do something, anything. He couldn’t just watch the seconds tick by like this, no matter how wonderful it felt to hold Bruce in his arms.

And so, far more discreetly than the younger boy had earlier, Jeremiah removed his arms from around Bruce and slid out of bed. Thinking he might be cold when he woke up, Jeremiah pulled a robe out of his closet and laid it on the chair in plain sight. Then, flicking the second switch on the wall, he left his room.

Seeing the door slide in place made him wonder, how did Bruce get in? He didn’t have a code, and Ecco should’ve been home by then. Unless she stayed late for something and just so happened to stumble across him. Jeremiah supposed he could ask her when she clocked in at seven.

All of the corridors were dark, but Jeremiah navigated his way to his office without any trouble. After all, he built the place. If he couldn’t maneuver around in the dark, who could?

“Jeremiah, 496.”

“Welcome, Mr. J-” This particular keypad had a bad habit of cutting out before it finished repeating its entry dialogue. He’d meant to fix that last week, but he’d been distracted by more pressing matters. Bruce didn’t know this, but Jeremiah had fallen rather ill during his absence.  He doubted the two events were related, but nonetheless, there was no need to worry the brunette. He felt fine now. Besides, the ailment had been somewhat irregular; he wasn’t even sure what he would call it. Migraines, he supposed, strange migraines. And a fever. Must’ve been. Otherwise how could his mind have conjured up such...well, it didn’t matter now.

His office was as dark as the corridors had been. Deciding that there was no need to boot up the generator for the entire bunker, Jeremiah connected the cord that granted power directly to his office and waited as the overhead lights flickered to life. He switched on the kettle; coffee frayed his nerves for some reason, so he’d stuck to tea since he was sixteen. Five years of a strict schedule instilled certain habits in one that were rather difficult to break. Waking up promptly at six-thirty had been one of those up until about twenty minutes ago.

Once a cup of oolong was in his hand, Jeremiah sat down at his desk. Distantly, he noted that all of the items he’d scattered on the floor last night per Bruce’s request were returned to their proper places. The memory made him smile. On a different note, he felt like he should do something nice for Ecco. She was always going out of her way to make his life as easy as possible. A card? No, she wasn’t much one for words. Flowers? Too impersonal and unprofessional. What did she like? Thinking about it, Jeremiah realized he didn’t really know. Most of their conversations were just Jeremiah giving her an order and her acknowledging she heard him. Every time he tried to have an actual discussion with her, the words felt strangely awkward and forced, and she usually came up with an excuse to leave. Jeremiah didn’t blame her; he’d probably have left too, if he’d had somewhere to go. It can’t be easy, being his assistant. Sometimes, he feels like Ecco does more of his work than he does.

Maybe he should ask Bruce. He’s better with the emotional stuff than him. And he understands people, a talent Jeremiah had always wanted, but unfortunately, his brother had gotten that one. Funny, seeing how his brother, despite all his understanding of people, still ended up as a serial killer. Thinking about Jerome made Jeremiah anxious, and a bit...guilty.

Sighing, he started up his idling computer. He tried to push his brother from his thoughts by reading through all of the emails he’d been neglecting. Nothing very important, really. Mostly various companies trying to reach out and hire him for an eclectic mix of jobs. Amateurs. Anyone who knows how Jeremiah operates knows that the only way he’ll accept an offer is through an in-person interview with Ecco acting as his stand-in. Typically, she conducts the interview rather than the corporate representative, which is rather entertaining to watch, as most of them are unprepared to be on the other side of things.

The emails held nothing for him. Instead, he turned to the program that had been kept open for eight weeks now. A 3D wireframe model greeted him. Seeing it made his heart stutter, like he was doing something illicit. Jeremiah had such grand ideas, if only he had a way to execute them. The electrical engine modelled before him...it was his desire to turn it from a simple design to something palpable. Clean energy. This little canister could change the entire industry of power distribution and consumption. But every company he’d brought it to told him it was impossible. Three chief executives had turned down his design. Jeremiah supposed their rejection was understandable, if not a bit hasty. Yes, the generator could become unstable if left on for extended periods of time. But he was working on that. Jeremiah glanced at the physical prototype on his worktable. He just needed to figure how to restabilize the core.

A shrill tone sounded in his office. Jumping up, Jeremiah looked around, trying to find where it was coming from. The buzzing against his chest revealed the source to be his shirt pocket. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his cellphone. He didn’t recognize the number. Who’d be calling him at this hour, anyway? Bruce was sleeping soundly, so he could cross that one out. But curiosity got the better of him. He flipped the phone open, saying,

“Hello?”

“Mr. Wilde, I’m deeply sorry to be contacting you so early in the morning,” a crisp male voice greeted him. It must be a business inquiry.

“That’s alright, I’m an early riser. Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“My name is Charles Nigaff, I’m the secondary psychiatrist for Arkham Asylum. I was routed to your number upon a request I filed with my superiors.” Arkham? Was this about Jerome?

“And what request would that be, Doctor Nigaff?” At least his voice didn’t shake.

“We fear that, unfortunately, something may have gone wrong-” oh no, oh God no, please “-with our wiring in certain parts of the facility.” Jeremiah let out a sigh of relief.

“And, you’re contacting me…?”

“You are the only hireable expert in the city with the qualifications to examine the issue.”

“Examine? As in, go to Arkham?”

“Well, yes, sir, otherwise how would you investigate the issue?”

“I’m not an electrician, Doctor Nigaff. I think you may have the wrong man.”

“Our electricity is running wonderfully. It’s a wiring problem with the doors, actually. Specifically the maximum-security containment sectors. I was told you contributed vastly to their design, and were perhaps the only person who worked on the project who’s still in Gotham.”

There was absolutely no way he’d be going to Arkham. But now that the doctor mentioned it, Jeremiah recalled having a hand in the design of the facility after it reopened. Actually, the asylum may have been part of his senior project, now that he thought about it.

“That was five years ago, but I may still have the prints on file. I could send them to you, if you’d like.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Wilde, I doubt any of our technicians could make much sense of your schematics. You’re the elusive master of the engineering industry within Gotham, and our people are highly unqualified to deal with an issue of this proportion.” If he was trying to stroke Jeremiah’s ego, it wasn’t working. Nothing would convince him to step foot in Arkham.

“Then I suggest you find someone who  _ can _ deal with it. Aside from myself, of course.”

“We would compensate you handsomely. I heard your usual rate for an in-house call is $250 an hour. We’d gladly double that.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Nigaff, but you could offer me all the money in the world. I’m not going to Arkham.” If Jeremiah was even a tad more confident, he would’ve hung up by now.

“I see you can’t be persuaded with money. Alright then, how about I offer you something else?”

“What could you possibly offer me that would change my mind?...My apologies, Doctor, that was a bit harsh.”

“It’s not an issue, Mr. Wilde. I heard-tell that you’re working on an electrical engine that could, hypothetically, generate clean energy for half the city. Is that true?”

“...Perhaps. Why?” And how did he learn about his project?

“Well, my source also told me your engine has been rejected on multiple accounts due to, hm,  _ inconvenient _ atomic instability that could, of course, result in an unhealthy radioactive environment.” Or a detonation through nuclear fission, but sure.

“That is an issue I’m currently facing, yes.”

“What if I told you I might have a solution to your issue? Or, at least, I know someone who does. And I could get the schematics from them,  _ if _ you did this little favor for me in return. But, if you could come  _ now, _ I’ll do everything within my power to arrange a meeting with them for you. I think you could benefit greatly from listening to what they have to say.”

Jeremiah mulled the idea over. Every self-preservation instinct he had was screaming at him not to go. But if this doctor knew someone who could fix his generator, he’d finally be able to push the project through a development team, which had been his dream for months now.

“Fine. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. I just have one request.”

“And what would that be, Mr. Wilde?”

“All of the Grade A patients are tightly locked away and guarded, and the recreation room must be emptied. The last thing I need is to be stabbed in the back with a fork while I bend over to examine a transmitter.”

“I-Yes, Mr. Wilde. Of course. We’ll await your arrival, then.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Doctor Nigaff.”

Now Jeremiah felt safe enough to hang up. What had he just signed himself up for? He swore just three minutes ago he wouldn’t go to Arkham no matter what he was offered, and now he’s just going to show up there in forty-five minutes? 

_ You’re doing it to get your model finalized,  _ he reminded himself. Sure, but at what cost? Jeremiah briefly wondered if they were still going to pay him. And who was this person that apparently knew how to stabilize the engine?

Well, he should probably get dressed if he was going to go diagnose the place that housed lunatics. Stepping back into the silent corridor, Jeremiah made his way back to the room. He worried about the voice of the keypad waking Bruce, but upon entering, he realized that wasn’t really much of an issue.

“Okay, okay, no need to be so paranoid, put the knife down,” Jeremiah greeted the blade-wielding brunette. He could barely see his face in the darkness.

Bruce quickly tossed the knife down on the bed and backed away from the doorway. “Sorry. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the lights on and I wasn’t sure where you went.”

“I should’ve left a note, I’m sorry.” He walked over to the bedside table and held up a remote for Bruce to see before clicking the button. “Where did you find that, anyway?” he asked, nodding at the knife.

Eyebrows raised, Bruce responded, “Under your pillow. And you call me paranoid.”

Jeremiah wanted to respond intelligently, but as soon as light flooded the room and he got a good look at Bruce, he may have forgotten how to speak. Yes, he decided right then and there. Morning Bruce was absolutely his favorite. Night Bruce had his charms, but Morning Bruce was beautiful beyond compare. His round, dark eyes were still a bit fuzzy from sleep, his hair had more curls in it than Bruce would ever admit, and that white shirt he’d given him last night hung perfectly from his thin frame. Clearly, he’d neglected the robe Jeremiah had left out for him.

“I...you look very nice.”

Bruce blinked, then glanced down. “No need to be rude. I only woke up about five minutes ago.”

“No, I’m um, I’m being serious. I’m usually being serious. I mean, that’s not...sometimes I’m not. Being serious, I mean.” Why had he even said anything?  _ Wonderfully intelligent, Miah. You’ve really impressed him with that one. _

An amused smile began to grow on Bruce’s face. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly. Yes.” Jeremiah cleared his throat and turned toward his closet, opening the door wide enough to accidentally block him from Bruce’s view.

“Are you sure?” the giggling skeptic asked through the door.

“Mhm. And since you always look so nice, help me pick out an outfit.”

“Well, let me past then.” Jeremiah reluctantly opened the closet door wider. Leaning over his shoulder, Bruce examined its contents. “What’s the occasion?”

For a second, he debated whether or not to tell Bruce. He didn’t want to worry him. But then again, if he was murdered, at least Bruce would know where to collect his corpse from.

“I’ve been hired to deal with a bit of a situation down at Arkham Asylum.”

“Oh.” Bruce’s brow furrowed. “When?”

Glancing at his watch, he responded, “About forty minutes from now.”

“Oh,” he repeated. “What kind of a situation?”

“Wiring issue. Something about the locks, I think.”

The confused expression disappeared from Bruce’s face, replaced by something similar to intrigue, but far more concerned. “The locks? As in, they can’t lock the doors?”

“I’d assume so, yes.”

“But doesn’t that mean the patients are just milling about unsupervised?”

Admittedly, Jeremiah hadn’t given it much thought. “I doubt it. That would be a little counterproductive, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, obviously. It’s a mental rehabilitation facility for the criminally insane. I just...I don’t know, the thought of you going alone is kind of worrying. Especially since…”

“Since my brother is their highest security inmate?”

Bruce glanced up at him. “Yes.” He plucked a maroon collared shirt from its hanger and tossed it on the bed, followed by a thin pine-green sweater. “Pair that with dark pants,” he advised, sitting next to the clothes.

“I’ll look like a Christmas tree,” Jeremiah frowned.

“No you won’t. That’s one of my favorite color combinations on you. You asked for my help. This is what you’re getting.”

He took another long look at the outfit. “Fine,” he decided, shedding his t-shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Bruce quickly turn his head away.

“Really?”

“What?” Bruce asked the alarm clock.

_ “Now _ you’re shy?”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No, that’s indecent.”

_ “Indecent?” _ Jeremiah spluttered. “You know what else is indecent? Giving oral to a sausage at the breakfast table in front of your guardian.”

“No, that’s fun.”  
“Alright, how about giving your business partner a lap dance in the strip club you blackmailed him into showing up at?”

“I was slightly inebriated, it doesn’t count. Besides, there was no blackmail involved. You just didn’t ask the right questions.”

Refusing to let this one go, Jeremiah pressed, “How about making out with that same business partner in the executive office of your own company?”

“I own the office. And the company. What could possibly be indecent about that?”

“Bruce.”

“Yes?” He was still stubbornly facing the wall.

“Look at me.”

“No. Put a shirt on, pervert.”

Jeremiah was in a hurry but he had a point to prove. Reaching over, he cupped Bruce’s jaw and tilted his head back towards him. Being the brat that he was, Bruce placed his own hands over his eyes.

“Fine, I suppose I’ll just get dressed and go then,” Jeremiah sighed, dropping his hands.

“Wait,” Bruce said quickly, forgetting to keep his eyes covered. “You’re not going without me- oh.”

“See, nothing to be afraid of.” Jeremiah rolled his eyes, tugging the maroon shirt over his head.

After a moment of staring silently at his covered torso, Bruce jumped up. “You cheated. And you’re not going without me.”

Jeremiah went to dig through his closet for pants. “We weren’t playing a game. How could I have cheated? And yes, Bruce, I’m changing pants as well. Right here. Like I do every morning. And if you’re going to be immature about it, then you can leave the room.”

“I’m not being immature, I’m simply respecting your privacy. That’s more than  _ you _ can say after the trick you pulled last night.”

Without a word, Jeremiah slipped out of his sweats and pulled on a pair of dark jeans. Noticing Bruce had firmly turned away again, he said softly, “I do feel really bad about what happened yesterday. I’m sorry, Bruce.”

Bruce sighed, then glanced at him. “It’s fine. Just ask me if I want a change of clothes next time.”

Raising a brow, Jeremiah responded, “That’s not the part I’m apologizing for. In fact, that was an excellent ploy. Very cleanly executed.”

Confused, Bruce asked, “Then what  _ are _ you trying to apologize for?”

“The missed opportunity,” Jeremiah teased, ducking into the bathroom before Bruce could follow.

The shout of “Jeremiah Valeska, you get back out here right now and give me a real apology!” could be heard through the door. He caught sight of his smiling reflection. Shaking his head, he brushed his teeth, dawdling until the bunker was silent again. He’d make up for his lateness somehow; this was definitely where he’d rather be.

He opened the door as quietly as possible, poking his head out before the rest of his body. Almost immediately, something wrapped around his neck. Spluttering, Jeremiah was yanked forward by the tie. Bruce held it firmly, careful not to actually choke him.

“Apologize, Mr. Valeska, or you’re going to be far later for work than you already are.” It sounded like he’d forgotten about coming with him. Good.

Meeting his stern gaze, Jeremiah replied, “I have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Wayne. And I really should be going.”

Bruce pulled on the black tie, tilting Jeremiah’s head down to look at him. “You’re not even going to say goodbye?” he asked, eyes wide.

“I still have to fix my hair and find my glasses. And you should allow me to do those things so I don’t get scolded by my employers.”

“I like your hair messy,” Bruce commented, twirling the fabric.

“It gives off a poor impression.”

“Then you should make up for it by wearing a tie under your sweater.”

“Let go of it, then, and I’ll put it on.”

“Don’t you know? It’s proper to let your boyfriend tie your tie for you before you go off to work.”

“Wait, what-” Bruce tugged on the tie again, pressing his lips to Jeremiah’s. He felt Bruce’s hands moving against his neck but he didn’t pay much attention to it. His mind was racing hundreds of miles an hour. The kiss was neat, but it still made Jeremiah’s pulse stutter. Bruce tasted like mint and vanilla chapstick. The pressure on his neck increased for a second and he broke the kiss, looking down.

His tie was firmly in place, flawlessly done. There were more important questions he wanted to ask, but the only one he could properly form was, “Did you do that with your eyes closed?”

Bruce tossed his sweater at him. “Well yes, I wasn’t going to kiss you with my eyes open. That’d be odd.”

Shrugging the top on, he responded, “That’s rather impressive.”  _ And oddly sexy. _

“I was born and raised among the highest tier of Gotham’s elite. I learned how to tie a tie at the ripe age of two. If I can’t do it with my eyes closed, then I’m a disgrace to the Wayne name.”

“I feel like that’s a lot of pressure for a two-year-old.” Jeremiah shuffled through the drawers of his bedside table, looking for his glasses. He really needed to get going.

“If you can’t handle the pressure at two, you’ll never make it to three.” Glancing at Bruce, he couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Oh, Miah.” Bruce tapped him on the shoulder, offering him his glasses.

“Thanks. Where were they?” He jammed them onto his face. There was no way he’d have time to do his hair now.

“Also under your pillow, coincidentally. I’m surprised they aren’t broken.”

“That  _ is _ a rather foolish place for them, isn’t it?” Jeremiah glanced at his reflection one more time before saying, “I’m going to be incredibly late. I have to go. I’ll call you later, alright?”

“No, you’ll  _ see _ me later. I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe. If you’d just let me come with you, though…” So, evidently, he had  _ not _ forgotten.

“No, Bruce. You’re not coming. It’d be very boring for you, trust me. I’ll call you when I’m finished. If you’re still here, we’ll go...I don’t know...get dinner or something.” Now that Bruce had let a label slip, Jeremiah wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to act. But an actual excursion  _ would _ be kind of nice. One that didn’t involve booze or morally questionable interactions.

The brunette crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Fine. We’ll figure something out.”

Jeremiah didn’t want to leave Bruce to stew in his anger. Trying to suppress a sigh, he said, “We’ll go somewhere really lovely. My treat. Please.”

Still expressionless, Bruce nodded. “That sounds wonderful.”

He checked his clock. He’d promised he’d be there by seven. It was already six-forty-two. And Arkham was at least a twenty-minute drive away.

“Great. I’ll see you then.” Jeremiah snatched up his work bag and rushed over to the door-panel, already open since the knife had distracted him just a bit. “There’s food in the kitchen- Ecco can show you when she gets here. Oh, and Bruce?”

Bruce stood up, still draped in that shirt. He was beginning to regret leaving more and more. “Yes?”

Jeremiah could tell he was upset with him, but all he said was, “This has been the best morning I’ve had in eleven years. Thank you.” And before Bruce could respond, he ducked out the door and made his way to the front entrance, taking the stairs two at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter than usual! Like I mentioned earlier, right now we're just setting things up because a lot is about to be put into motion- more forces are at play here than I think Bruce or Jeremiah realize!
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! Feel free to leave any comments or criticism! Love you all!


	11. White Lightning

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

The joy the morning had brought Jeremiah quickly began to fade as the asylum came into view. Every possible accident, threat, and outcome of this drastic decision raced through his mind. And most of them centered around one thing: What would happen if he saw Jerome?

Technically, he’d been preparing for their inevitable rendezvous for eleven years. But in every scenario he had conjured, Jeremiah had never ran willingly to him. That had seemed impossible. Until today, that is. He had absolutely no backup plan; he barely knew what he was walking into.

Even the towering iron gates were ominous. Crows could be seen flying overhead as he pulled the Infiniti into the lot, parking as close to the entrance as possible in case he needed to make a run for it. Jeremiah stepped out of his car, grabbing his bag and the box of tools he kept in the rare event he actually went out on a job. It was just a simple wiring issue; it shouldn’t take that long. In all honesty, Jeremiah didn’t care much for the task itself. He was here for the compensation. He needed this meeting.

Undoubtedly there would be a mix-up with the first person he met. After all, several of these staff members spent twelve hours a day around his brother. He’d just have to explain himself as quickly and clearly as possible. He’d considered sending Ecco, but had decided against it. He wouldn’t place her in harm’s way, especially when he wasn’t sure who he’d be meeting.

Walking through the front entrance, he was greeted by a bleak chain-link fence separating the reception area and the hallway leading to the recreation room. A frazzled-looking woman sat behind the desk, uniform haphazardly thrown on. As soon as the doors shut behind Jeremiah, she jumped to her feet.

“You! You shouldn’t be out again- hold on a sec. Are you…?”

Approaching her slowly, he offered a hand. “Xander Wilde. I was contacted by Doctor Nigaff regarding the issue with the wiring.”

“You look awfully-”

“Like Jerome Valeska, one of your current patients? Yes, I’m aware, Miss-” he glanced at the nametag pinned to her white uniform, “Miss Reed. Do you know where I might find Doctor Nigaff?”

She glanced behind her nervously. “He’s probably with a patient right now. He said somethin’ ‘bout you swingin’ by. But, that was about twenty minutes ago, now, that was.” Silly girl. She should really ask more questions.

Jeremiah put on his most indulgent expression. “Yes, I got caught up in prior obligations. My apologies for any inconvenience you’ve suffered on my behalf, Miss Reed.”

“Ah, it’s no problem, sir. I can call down to his office if you’d like. We’ve uh, we’ve had quite a day here, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” She sat back down at her desk, pressing a button beside the receiver. “Doctor Nigaff? Yes, sir, I know I promised I wouldn’t bother you no more this mornin’ but I got that electric guy you’d mentioned here at the front desk.” Jeremiah didn’t bother correcting her, it wasn’t worth the effort. “‘Course, sir. No, no, I didn’t mean anything by it. Sorry, Doctor. Yes, I’ll send ‘im down. Arm ‘im? Really? It ain’t that bad, we’ve got security stationed outside every door. Yes, sir, sorry, I know it ain’t my place. Compose myself?...Yes, I’ll do that. On it. Oh and,” she looked at him guiltily before turning away, muffling her voice as if that would stop him from hearing. “He looks kinda...interestin’.” Jeremiah drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. She started in her seat. “Alright, I’m sendin’ ‘im down now. Yes, thank you, Doctor Nigaff.”

Swiveling back towards him, she smiled anxiously. “Sorry, ‘bout that, Mr. Wilde. Uh, the doc is in his office. I’ll show you, of course. Sorry, I don’t normally work reception. I’m a nurse here. Anyways, um, this way, sir.” She hurried to her feet, pressing a different button. The metal gate swung open and she rushed him through.

The recreation room was vacant, just as Jeremiah had requested, but a guard stood rigidly in front of its entrance. “What’s he doing there?” Jeremiah inquired.

“He’s watchin’ the hall to make sure, well, just to keep things in order. We’re goin’ down this way, sir.” She steered him away from the patients’ ward before he could catch a glimpse of what was happening. The interior of the mental hospital looked much the same as it had when he’d been working on its reopening. Everything was dirty shades of white, green, and grey, and each room was still used for the same purpose it had been outlined for in the original plans. The only real differences were the sounds; scattered mumbles, fearful whispers, the odd echoing laugh, and screeches of pain and joy could be heard from the corridor they had just passed. The halls had been silent when Jeremiah had worked here before. Now every sound instilled his rising unease further within him.

A simple oak door stood at the end of the corridor. Miss Reed knocked lightly on it twice. “Doctor Nigaff?” she practically whispered.

There was a pause and a murmur from behind the door before it opened, revealing a stout balding man in a long white coat. “Ah, thank you, Sandra. If you’ll just leave him and the item I requested here, you can be on your way. We shouldn’t leave the front entrance unguarded for too long, yes?”

If Jeremiah wasn’t mistaken, she passed him a pistol and gave a small bow. “Try and have a good rest of your mornin’, Doctor.” The nurse gave another slight dip of her head before hurrying down the corridor they’d came from.

“So, you’re Gotham’s most admired engineer. I can see now why you don’t go out much, Mr. Wilde.” Nigaff had focused his attention on Jeremiah, squinting through his round glasses.

“You aren’t alarmed?” He figured he may as well get this out of the way now.

“On the contrary, I’m highly intrigued. I’ve sat personally with Jerome Valeska on several occasions. Never met a more fascinating patient. Disturbingly morbid, certainly. But a brilliant boy nonetheless. And your relation to him is…?”

Jeremiah was somewhat dismayed by the doctor’s description of his brother. It was disturbingly positive. “Twin. Do you need to conduct a check to verify our identities are separate?”

“Well, if you’ll just step into my office, we’ll get a better-”

“Doc Nigaff, don’t make me laugh! This nerd doesn’t have a word on our dear Jerome. I’m simply shocked up he’s not locked, and that they still let him roam,” a fanatic voice interrupted from inside the office. “Crazy as his dear brother, one might say, but kept away, away, until the day he’s sprayed. What a spoilsport, with his report, coming all this way.”

“Now, now, Jervis. No need to be hostile.” Nigaff opened the door to his office fully to show a weasel-like man wearing a newspaper top hat and a straightjacket sitting in front of the psychiatrist's desk. Jeremiah recognized him; Jervis Tetch, the criminal behind the Tetch virus and the hypnotist who possessed a very potent skill, indeed.

“Hostile, Doctor? No, not I. But I wouldn’t take for face value the engineer’s lie. Now be a dear, and take me to my cell. Not that it matters here, but I know you mean well. A wiring trick? Yes, very clever. Shame it was on behalf of the doctor’s endeavor-”

“That’s enough, Jervis.” The psychiatrist’s face gave nothing away. His tone was stern, but even. Jeremiah knew better than to say anything back to the madman, it would just fuel his delusion. So he kept silent, but in his head, he was coming up with hundreds of interpretations of everything Tetch had just said. He felt it was important, but he’d never liked riddles. Of course the man willing to give him the most information only spoke in rhymes, it was just his luck. Nigaff stepped behind his desk and leaned down to address an intercom. “I need any available security personnel in my office to escort Jervis Tetch back to his cell, thank you.” The doctor glanced at him. “By all means, Mr. Wilde, please have a seat.”

Jeremiah’s eyes darted to the available chair and then to the one next to it, currently occupied by a curious psychopath. Sighing inwardly, he sat in the chair as quickly as possible, keeping all his limbs tucked close to him.

“I’ll admit, this isn’t typically how things are run here at Arkham. Every effort is mainly focused on containing the patients at the moment.”

“Are... _ all _ of the patients’ doors unlocked, sir?”

Doctor Nigaff was as stoic as ever, but his voice betrayed him. “Ah, um, not to worry, Mr. Wilde. Your brother is currently under more surveillance than half the hospital. I assume you’re afraid he might...seek you out personally?”

“Seek him out? Yes, he might. But for now, perhaps just a peek would suffice,” Tetch interjected. Knuckles rapped on the door. Jeremiah would be lying if he said he didn’t jump in his seat. “I think that’s for me. It’s been a pleasure, this visit, I’ll surely treasure. And you again, soon, I will see.” Two guards burst into the room and pulled Tetch from his seat, hauling him out of the office while he hummed a cheery tune. Things were slowly going from ominous to downright threatening.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Jervis is...less pleasant to work with than your brother. He’s rather partial to threats contained within nursery rhymes. Jervis is also much more difficult to sit with; I typically have to wear earplugs as his hypnosis is surprisingly powerful. It’s not an ideal environment for therapy. But for some reason, he agreed to be compliant today, and what kind of doctor would I be if I turned down the opportunity for progress?”

Jeremiah nodded, glancing at the door every now and again out of nervousness. “I suppose not a very optimistic one. Could we, perhaps, get to the matter at hand? I’m sure you understand that I don’t want to be here longer than I have to.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Nigaff shuffled through a few papers. “Unfortunately, we can’t simply relock the doors by hand as the mechanisms installed five years ago operate-”

“-via keycard, I’m aware.”

“Correct.” The smile he granted Jeremiah seemed rather strained. “We’ve examined the panel in the basement that routes all of the signals, but we can’t locate the issue. Everything appears to be in its place.”

“Would you allow me to have a look at it?”

“Of course, Mr. Wilde. That’s why you’re here, after all.”

Jeremiah met the doctor’s gaze. “I’d like that meeting first, if you don’t mind.”

Nigaff raised an eyebrow above the metal rim of his glasses. “Pardon me for being cautious, Mr. Wilde, but I don’t think that’s a very good idea. How am I to know you won’t simply get what you need and abandon us in this mess?”

“My word isn’t enough?”

He cleared his throat again. “Not in this case, I’m afraid.”

“Then how am I to know you won’t just refuse to let me meet with this scientist of yours after I’ve finished?”

A trace of amusement entered the psychiatrist’s cold grey eyes. “I have a hunch that you may have more to gain here than anyone else. And in that case, you’ll just have to take  _ my _ word. Trust me, you’ll get what you need. But not before we do. Besides, if that’s not enough incentive for you, it’d be a real shame if your brother got wind of you being here and decided to...accidentally slip past his guards.”

Jeremiah dropped his gaze. Threatening it is. “Fine. Show me to the basement, if you’d be so kind.”

“Certainly, Mr. Wilde. Right this way.” Nigaff rose from his chair and Jeremiah followed close behind as they exited the office. The doctor led him through another corridor lined with medical offices and resource services. Eventually, they reached a decrepit-looking storage area. Towards the back of the room, another chain-link fence sectioned off a dark stairwell that Jeremiah could only assume led to the basement. Lovely.

The psychiatrist pulled out a rusty key and released the chain holding the gate in place. It creaked open slowly, an icy draft blowing up from the gaping stairway. Jeremiah shot the doctor his best  _ You’re kidding  _ look to which he received a questioning tilt of the head. Apparently he was the only one who saw an issue with the basement of nightmares. Letting his sigh escape him this time, Jeremiah reluctantly followed Nigaff down the stone steps. The echoing cries from the patients grew with every foot he placed in front of the other. Their laughter clung to him like cobwebs.

 

…

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

Bruce tailed Jeremiah. Obviously. As soon as he’d exited the bunker, Bruce had granted him a six minute head start, then practically ran for his Mustang. Luckily for him, the perpetual cloud cover that always hung over Gotham was particularly heavy this morning, blocking out any chance of the sun’s rays seeping through to expose him. 

“Call Alfred,” he instructed the vehicle. It responded with a pleasant ding and soon enough, the line was picked up.

“Who is this?” his butler asked.

“Alfred, it’s me,” Bruce responded, tone heavy with exasperation.

“I’m afraid that doesn’t quite clear it up for me, mate.”

“I’m more than happy to deal with a lecture when I come home, but I need your help right now.”

An audible sigh could be heard across the line. “Are you ever going to call for a pleasant chat, Master Bruce?”

“Probably not. I’d just come see you if I wanted to talk to you. Listen, in the study, in the middle-right drawer of the desk, there’s a file. It’s an updated file on Arkham. Could you pull it out for me and check something?”

There was a pause as Alfred presumably went to do as he requested. Bruce narrowly avoided colliding with a crow crossing the highway. Jeremiah’s car had disappeared from his view.

“Alright, I have it. What am I looking for, exactly, sir?”

“The employees. Who’s currently in charge?”

“You’ve noted that the entirety of Arkham’s business is still being overseen by the Court.”

“Not that part. I’m well aware that the other half of their budget that’s not coming out of my pocket is coming from them. The actual list of employees. Who’s the current director?”

“According to this document, it’s uncertain who’s directing Arkham these days. A Dr. Charles Quimby is mentioned, but you’ve made another note that says he’s been-”

“-missing for several months, yes, I recall now. He was also the chief of psychiatry, correct?”

“Yes, Master Bruce.”

“That would place the secondary psychiatrist in charge, which would be…?”

“You have two doctors listed as candidates for the position. It seems they were both up for interview upon your initial investigation. Dr. Roger Huntoon, a British psychiatrist who you’ve noted has an interest in patients with physical ailments that warp the mind’s perception of oneself, Charming. There was also a Dr. Charles Nigaff. You had little to say about him, only that he-”

“Charles Nigaff?” Bruce broke in.

“Yes, sir.”

“But that’s not possible. He’s currently employed at Wayne Enterprises. He’s the head of Interdepartmental Research.”

“Well, perhaps he didn’t get the job at Arkham.”

“He’s the one who reported the thefts to me. And I’d bet anything that the problem Jeremiah was called in to address down at the asylum has something to do with the remote that was taken from Wayne Enterprises.” Bruce had wanted to mention his hunch to Jeremiah earlier, but he hadn’t given him the chance.

“Do you think he’s behind the thefts, then?”

Bruce considered his question for a moment. Everything they’d come across pointed to Nigaff as the culprit. But why? As far as Bruce knew, he had no motive. Then again, it’s not like Bruce knew him well.

“I’m not sure, but it’s worth investigating. I’m heading to Arkham right now. Try and dig up anything you can on him.”

“Certainly, Master B. But how do you plan on getting in?”

“The Wayne name worked last time.”

“Yes, for Hugo Strange, the man who ordered the death of your parents on behalf of the Court. And we didn’t exactly come out of that one unscathed, now did we?”

“Well, I have a plan. It’s not very concrete, but it might do the trick if I get caught.” Bruce glanced at the object in the console.

“Is that you telling me you plan on simply sneaking in?”

“Forgetting to ask permission to enter...from the air ducts.”

There was a pause from the other line, followed by another hardly contained sigh. “Whatever you think is best, sir. I’ll contact Lucius and ask him to run a search on Charles Nigaff. He’ll send you the results.”

“Thanks, Alfred. I won’t be home tonight.”

“That’s alright, as long as you’re safe.”

“Aren’t I always?” he asked. When he got nothing more than a presumptuous “hmph”, Bruce conceded, “I promise I’ll be safe. I’ll talk to you later.” Bruce tapped the monitor, ending the call. Drumming his fingers on the wheel, he carefully considered the best entry points. The bridge to Arkham had come into view now. Few cars travelled the road alongside him. Not to say his car was a bit conspicuous, but, well, his car  _ was _ a bit conspicuous. But a lone teenage boy walking up to the asylum was just as likely to get him caught. Of course, on the one day where he needed to break into Arkham, they finally tightened security. Maybe he’d have to disregard his plan and simply walk through the front door. How could he keep an eye on Jeremiah, though, if he just announced himself? Bruce looked at the console once more.  _ I could use that, and then find a way to stick close after he thinks I’ve gone home.  _ Making a decision, he drove across the bridge, giving a polite nod to the staff stationed on the road.

Once he parked, Bruce snatched the object out of the console and made his way to the reception area. A dark-haired woman sat at the desk beside the chain-link fence, watching the security monitors apprehensively. As soon as he entered the room, she sprang to her feet.

“Can I help you?”

One look at her told Bruce everything he needed to know. She wasn’t part of Arkham’s security detail. She was most likely another staff member, a nurse or a psychiatric aide, who was filling in for someone else. Her uniform was different than the usual reception staff and she gave off an air of inconfidence, like she was afraid of making a mistake.

“Yes, I’m looking for someone.”

An eyebrow quirked, she asked, “Here? Kinda hard to lose someone to this place.”

Bruce held up the object for her to see. “An engineer should’ve come through here about fifteen minutes ago. Kinda pretentious, probably sounded like he had better things to do. Impeccably well-dressed. Xander Wilde. He left his phone at home.”

 

…

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

To the basement’s credit, it wasn’t exceptionally creepy. In fact, it was a rather typical basement. The hum of electrical boxes and pipes echoed throughout the large concrete room the staircase dropped them in. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, dark splotches marking the graveyards of countless flies far from home. Large crates were piled high haphazardly around the room, their vague labels reduced to smears after years of wear. Clearly, the space wasn’t used for anything more than storage. Although, if Jeremiah remembered correctly, this wasn’t the true basement of Arkham. The original basement outlined in the plans had housed Indian Hill until Hugo Strange’s monsters had been revealed to the world.

“It’s right over here, Mr, Wilde,” Nigaff informed him, pointing rather pompously at a blinking panel across from them. Jeremiah could have very well figured that out himself, but picking a fight over  _ that _ of all things seemed like a waste of energy better spent on something else. Like fixing the damn doors so he could go home and take Bruce out to eat...for example.

Jeremiah set down both his bag and toolbox, peering closely at the panel. The outside layer was covered with labels and switches, each one pertaining to a room in the asylum. The flashing green lights beside each name told him that everything was in working order. Not a single red light was visible on the outside of the box, which was odd considering nothing upstairs was actually functioning as it was supposed to. In short, the panel was lying to him, and Jeremiah didn’t appreciate being lied to by a mechanism incapable of even fathoming the concept of insincerity. He refused to be outsmarted by a control center for  _ door locks. _

“Oh, you’ll need a key to access the inner panel. That little detail seemed to have slipped my mind. I may need to track it down.” Nigaff’s emotionless voice sounded impossibly loud in this giant humming room.

“Not to worry doctor,” Jeremiah responded without sparing him a glance. He squinted at the keyhole before fishing out a torsion wrench and a short hook from his box. “I brought my own key.” A moment of manipulation and the panel swung open, revealing a mess of wires and another switchboard. He set about to checking that every wire was properly connected, each switch flicked to the correct setting. He hated working with his back to Nigaff, but he didn’t have much of a choice. The psychiatrist seemed intent on watching him closely. Jeremiah swore he could feel the scrutiny and curiosity emanating from him, but he would wager a guess his interest had little to do with Jeremiah’s expertise, and more to do with his brother. People always wanted to know about Jerome the second they met Jeremiah. He didn’t really blame them; his twin had always been far more intriguing. After all, who wouldn’t want to interrogate the completely average sibling of a psychopathic serial killer? He was surprised the GCPD hadn’t demanded he return so they could question him. They must have bigger problems to worry about at the moment. Jeremiah distantly recalled hearing about a case involving a man wearing a pig’s head giving the police a particularly difficult go of it at the moment. Everyday business for the average Gothamite.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Wilde?”

It was only after Nigaff spoke that Jeremiah realized he’d been frowning. “It depends. Which would you like first, the good news or the bad news?”

“Good news please. Might as well give me a bit of hope before you dash it without restraint.”

“Erm, right. Well,” Jeremiah looked over his shoulder at the doctor. “The good news is, there’s nothing wrong with the control center.”

“But that’s clearly incorrect, seeing as the problem still remains.”

He nodded. “Which brings us to the bad news. Because there’s nothing visibly wrong with the locking mechanisms themselves, it means an outside signal must be interfering with the directions being given by the system. They’re receiving opposing orders, which is befuddling the functions of the locks. The system still thinks it’s working because the core is relaying the ‘locked’ message to the chips controlling the status of each door upstairs. However, the interfering signal is stopping that message from reaching the mechanism that activates and releases the lock, forcing the doors to remain open. This in it of itself isn’t that much of an issue. I can simply override the opposing order with a manual input to the core.”

“If it’s that easy, then why don’t you get on with it?”

Irritated by Nigaff’s tone, Jeremiah snapped back, “Because it  _ isn’t _ that easy, otherwise I would have done it already.”

“Then please elaborate, my dear genius acquaintance,” the psychiatrist sniffed. At that moment, Jeremiah got the impression he wasn’t very good at his job. Nigaff’s lack of empathy was clearly unsuited for making a lasting impact on his patients.

“The contrasting signals are causing the panel to produce an excess amount of electricity, far more than it needs. It’s trying to meet the requirements of both sets of orders, and failing to meet either, trapping it in a closed loop.” Jeremiah tugged on an innocent-looking orange wire. “And  _ this _ little cord is funneling that excess energy to a different receiver.”

Nigaff raised an eyebrow. “To where, exactly?”

Jeremiah turned around fully to meet his deceptively oblivious gaze. “You tell me. What’s behind this wall?”

“How should I know? As far as I’m concerned, Arkham’s below-ground level ends here.”

“That’s what you’d tell the authorities, I presume?” Jeremiah asked flatly.

“Oh, no. Not I. After all,  _ you’re  _ the only person in the city clever enough to catch the detail of that ‘little cord’. How would I even be aware of its existence? It would take a perceptive, well-trained eye to notice that, don’t you think?” The cold gleam in Nigaff’s own eyes spoke the words he’d so eloquently danced around.

Jeremiah took an involuntary step back, stopping once he felt the edge of the panel dig into his shoulder. “Why drag me out here then, if you knew what was happening?”

“Why come here, of all places, when you knew exactly what would happen?” Nigaff shot back at him, voice delightedly clinical. “A search for danger perhaps? An adrenaline rush rarely experienced in your line of work? Do you feel as though you’re missing something,  _ Xander?” _ He dragged out Jeremiah’s pseudonym like a particularly fascinating word to roll off his tongue.

Without thinking, he plucked a phillips head screwdriver from his trove of tools and brandished it at the doctor, who barely batted an eye. “So you’re working for  _ him, _ then.”

“Who is this elusive  _ him _ you speak of? If you’re referring to your brother, then no, I do not work for Jerome Valeska. How entirely unprofessional that would be. He’s my client, and that’s far outside the boundaries we psychiatrists are allowed to venture. No, I do not work for him. Or with him, if that helps assuage your fears of me tricking you with minor wordplay. In fact, I highly doubt he even knows you’re here. He’d be so put out, you see, and I really couldn’t bear to ruin his good spirits like that.”

Well, nothing about that string of words held any coherent meaning to him. Slowly, Jeremiah lowered the screwdriver. “Then...what’s happening?” The question sounded idiotic, even to him, but he didn’t know how else to phrase it. Every scenario he’d conjured of this visit to Arkham had involved a scheme of Jerome’s that eventually resulted in Jeremiah’s own death. And so far, this plot here didn’t match any of his idlings.

A twinkle of amiability entered the psychiatrist’s eyes. “Would you believe me, Jeremiah, if I told you there was someone else rather interested in meeting you? I did promise you that meeting, after all. And you’ve been so incredibly helpful.”

“No,” he answered immediately. “I’m not interested. I’m leaving. Now.” Jeremiah didn’t care anymore. He’d work out his own problems with the generator. He didn’t need someone else’s opinion, especially not someone who went to such miserable lengths to see him. God, how could he have been so stupid to think this was going to magically fix everything? He didn’t even believe in magic. Hell, he didn’t believe in God either. So why did he always find himself cursing him whenever something didn’t go entirely his way? Jeremiah supposed a part of him just wanted someone to blame, so he looked to a deity that opposed everything he  _ did _ believe in for answers. The one person Jeremiah never could blame was the only person responsible for everything he blamed the rest of the world for. And that single flaw had cost him a family, it’d cost him a life.

“Please,” Nigaff said through a taut smile, yanking Jeremiah unceremoniously back to reality. “I implore you stay a moment and meet the man you came all this way to see. It would be such a waste, passing on the opportunity.”

Jeremiah attempted to brush past him, remarking, “I just realized I scheduled a much more important meeting for later this evening and I have a feeling that if I linger here any longer, I may just miss it.”

A firm hand pressed against his chest, stopping him in his tracks. “The doctor thought it might come to this,” Nigaff sighed.

Alarm flashed through him. “Wait, what do you-”

A resounding  _ crack _ echoed throughout the industrial basement. Jeremiah clutched his jaw, alarm blossoming into full-blown panic as his vision went blurry. He could just make out Nigaff shaking his hand as if the punch had tainted his precious sterilized fingers. The gun Sandra had passed off to him had reappeared in his grip. Jeremiah tried to speak, to raise his screwdriver, but he realized his efforts were futile as he saw the psychiatrist calmly pull out a loaded syringe that he could barely visualize, squinting through streaks of white and grey.

“No…” he managed to mumble as the needle was plunged into his throat. The last image his mind could comprehend was the placidly smiling man in a white lab coat forcing any sinister concoction of chemicals into his bloodstream. Then the world truly faded, whites became greys, and greys became blacks, until it was one black blanketed over all the rest. And only then did Jeremiah’s mind truly feel empty.

 

…

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

The nurse cast a doubtful look at the cellphone. “You’re sayin’ Mr. Wilde just forgot his phone? You two brothers or somethin’?” she squinted at him, trying to draw any resemblance.

Giving her a winning smile, Bruce answered, “Oh, goodness, no. His brother is far more interesting than me. I’m a friend of Xander’s, we work for the same company.”

Not entirely convinced, the nurse, Miss Reed, judging by her nametag, observed, “No offense, but you don’t look a day over sixteen.”

“I assure you, none taken. I’d like to think it means when I’m forty, I’ll look as if I were no older than thirty-six.”

She seemed to relax a bit. “Well, sir, I’m not quite sure where Mr. Wilde is at the moment. He disappeared with Doctor Nigaff to look at somethin’. I can take his phone, and just hand it over when I see him next if you’d like.”

The phrase “disappeared with Doctor Nigaff” trickled apprehension down Bruce’s spine. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to get it back to him myself. He’s far more likely to take me to dinner if I hand-deliver it, you see.”

That got her attention. Reed (casting his thoughts back to his research on the staff, Bruce vaguely recalled her first name starting with an S), peered across the desk at him, an intrigued smile tugging at her lips. “Are you with him or somethin’?”

He decided to play it coy. “Well no, he’s currently with your doctor. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I mean... _ with _ him, with him. Y’know?”

Bruce granted her a secretive smirk, like he was giving her an exclusive piece of information that her gossiping colleagues would kill to get their hands on. “I can’t say for certain, but being able to return his cellphone to him might be a decisive factor in the grand scheme of things.”

Reed returned his smile. “Who am I to stand in the way of ‘the grand scheme of things’? If I were to guess, I’d say the doctor and Mr. Wilde are down in the basement lookin’ at some electric thing or other. They probably took the admin route, but I know a shortcut. Besides, if we cut through the patients’ ward, no one of importance will know I took ya down there. It’ll be our little secret.”

Not one to argue with his stroke of luck, Bruce compliantly followed the nurse as she let him through the gate and took a sharp right at the recreation room. Nothing shifted within the scenery; everything was dull. White had never born such a striking resemblance to grey, and grey had never looked so much like green. But the noises, oh the  _ noises.  _ At first, they tugged at Bruce’s ears like an interesting melody, a bit unconventional, but piqued his curiosity nonetheless. As the pair got closer to the patients’ ward, the sounds  _ tore _ at him, a cacophony of torment begging for an end to it all. The screaming and crying, Bruce could tolerate, but the  _ laughter _ ricocheting off the cell walls crept under his skin like a disease, lacing his veins with unease. The cackles brought back memories of charity benefits and silver knives, of mirrors and circus lights. Of broken promises, shattered beyond repair. His half suddenly felt unbearably heavy.

Bruce shook his head. He needed to snap out of it. He did his best not to peer into the cells. Guards were stationed periodically throughout the ward- Men’s Ward C, if Bruce remembered correctly. This area housed mostly nonlethal patients, criminals who’d just had a minor psychotic break. Most of the resigned mumbles and moans came from this ward, while the shrieks and laughs echoed from farther in. The nurse kept glancing back at Bruce nervously, as if he would disappear if she left her eyes off of him for too long. Which, he supposed, was fair in her line of work. 

“It’s through the men’s ward,” Reed commented quietly. Yes, he’d gathered that. “All the way through, I mean. Normally we don’t take visitors back here.” She gestured to the hallway they were approaching, marked only by a white door. A placard beside it read: Men’s Ward A.

“What happened to Men’s Ward B?” Bruce wondered aloud.

Reed smirked importantly, seemingly satisfied that he’d asked. “No one knows, really. Old Amadeus Arkham had  _ outlined _ all three, and the last director swore it existed, but there’s no Men’s Ward B on any map of the institution, and we sure as hell don’t keep any patients there. There are only Women’s Wards A and B, so I guess what’s really outta place is a third Men’s Ward.” They’d paused outside the entrance to Ward A.

Bruce considered the mystery for a moment. “I’d assume a third Men’s Ward was built to house the overflow. After all, it was common belief back then that men were more likely to fall victim to insanity than women. There were probably more male patients, so an additional ward was needed. Perhaps it was just discarded before the reopening.”

His answer didn’t appear to impress her. “Yeah, maybe. Anyways,” she pulled out a set of keys and flipped through them before selecting a large rusty one and forcing it through the lock. “This is one of the only doors in the building we can still control since the last director figured it’d be best to keep this one manual. A lot harder to steal a key than a keycard, he’d reckoned. I sorta agree with him, honestly. Too many of those things floatin’ around. Only two keys. Besides, keycards are all-access. Keys are just keys. They only go to the one door.”

 As she spoke, the white door swung open with a click. And behind it was absolute chaos.

The laughter was painfully loud here, great bounds of it filling the air, trying to choke out the crying that was its only rival. Patients milled about almost languidly, going in and out of each other’s cells as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Guards chased after them, mostly well-built men, but the majority looked as if they’d already given up. There were simply too many to manage. The prisoners’ black and white striped uniforms did nothing to assimilate them; every man within the ward exuded an overwhelming amount of personality. Some had scars in the oddest of places, others had distorted facial features. Still others bore expressions of malice, or terror, or joy. Some he even recognized, not that they’d recognize him. And when Reed led Bruce into the corridor, all of those faces turned to him.

Maintaining an air of confidence, Bruce straightened his shoulders but didn’t meet any of the patients’ eyes. Instead, he stared past them as if they were in no way of interest to him. He kept his face void of emotion, but it did nothing to dissuade the stares.

“This way, sir,” the nurse ushered him. How she could stand so surely in the midst of all this ill-intent both impressed and bewildered him. She must know something he didn’t. “Morning, Mr. Jacobs,” Reed nodded to the closest guard.

“Morning, Sandra,” Jacobs responded curiously. Now Bruce knew her name at least. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Even the guards had frozen. Clearly, they were the oddity in this madhouse.

“I was just takin’ Mr. uh,” she glanced at him furtively.

It was at that moment Bruce realized she didn’t know his name. How could she explain what they were doing if she couldn’t even name him?

Well, so much for ambiguity. He extended a hand to the guard. “Bruce Wayne. I’m reporting on behalf of my company. We manufactured the mechanism giving you issues now. It’s only fair I take a look around. I’m with the engineer who might’ve come through here not too long ago.”

To her credit, Sandra didn’t even blink at his change in story. “I’m showin’ Mr. Wayne to the basement. The higher-ups don’t want us goin’ through their area anymore. Too distracting, they told me.”

Many of the patients had lost interest by now and wandered off to scream at each other or whatever it is that noise was. Jacobs visibly relaxed. “Ah, I remember Doctor Nigaff mentioning he had a technician coming by. They didn’t pass through the ward though, must’ve used the admin access.”

A hand pressed against his back. “Well,” Sandra said, “If you’ll excuse us-”

Suddenly, an insistent alarm cut her off. It blared for only a few seconds, but several inmates clapped their hands to their ears and cursed the sky. “All available personnel, please report to Doctor Young’s office for an immediate reissue in procedure.” Sandra and Jacobs caught each other’s unspoken question before glancing at the other guards in the room. “All available personnel, please report to Doctor Young’s office for an immediate reissue in procedure. Thank you.”

Jacobs grabbed Sandra’s arm. “C’mon, Sandra, we’ve gotta go. The last person to miss a procedure reassignment was Johnson during the Breakout three years ago, and we all know what happened to him.” The hall was mostly vacant now; the inmates had all settled in cells after that clipped voice broke over the intercom. 

“I can’t just leave a visitor unattended,” she argued, pointing a finger at Bruce. 

To be honest, being left unattended was exactly what he wanted. He’d have a better shot at tailing Jeremiah without Sandra Reed breathing down his neck.

“Miller, then. We’ll leave Miller, it’s not like he’d want to go anyway.” Jacobs approached a massive man with a bored expression who had more muscles than Bruce had bedrooms. Jacobs murmured something to the man who could only be Miller and received a noncommittal shrug that apparently sufficed because he turned right around and resumed his hold on Sandra’s elbow. “Let’s go. If we hurry, we’ll be back before Nigaff is tucked in his office again. When that man gets out, you know it’s bad news. C’mon.”

Sandra cast Bruce another desperate look, but allowed herself to be led back out of the ward. “Don’t move from that spot!” she called over her shoulder. Little did she know, he had every intention of moving from this spot.

As soon as she was gone, Bruce glanced back down the corridor, accidentally catching the eye of giant Miller. He was, well, a problem. Admittedly a very intimidating, handsome problem. But a problem nonetheless. How was Bruce going to convince this hulking man with brown eyes that could kill to just let him roam freely in the maximum security ward of an asylum for the criminally insane? Well, step one would be to approach him. Step two: casual building of trust. Step three: conviction? Step four...profit?

This was not going to go well. But, ignoring his better judgement, Bruce drifted towards Miller as disinterestedly as he could muster. “So, you’re the babysitter,” Bruce remarked offhandedly.

The guard glanced down at him and gave another shrug. Bruce needed to get under his skin like the laughter that had now ceased crawled under his own.

“You’re a scintillating conversationalist, you know.”

Miller didn’t spare him a glance this time.

“It’s okay. I’m interesting enough for the both of us, and I assure you, I can talk for days. There was this one time, I was out on Main Street and-”

“Silence.”

Okay, Mister Deep-Gravelly-Voice. Take it easy. 

“You can’t simply call out the word ‘silence’. The act in it of itself is paradoxical because you’re announcing the fact that you want it to be quiet, which erases the entire-”

Miller placed a hand the size of a basketball over his mouth. Bruce didn’t take kindly to being forcibly hushed. He tore at the hand, trying to force it away from him, but it was like trying to move a parked truck by himself. Looking up again, he saw those deadly dark eyes had dilated and were darting rapidly in their sockets. Clearly, he was afraid. But of what? Bruce didn’t know whether he should be scared as well, so he just stood still.

“They’ve released him,” Miller whispered. “He’s back.”

_ Who?  _ Who could they possibly have let out that made a man like Miller shake in his boots? And how could he tell? Bruce would’ve asked, but that hand remained firmly clamped to his mouth.

Suddenly, Bruce heard it. The whistling. And it was only then he realized the ward had fallen silent. All that remained was that haunting, jovial melody. But the notes were all wrong. They were off-key and sounded so grated, he feared for the vocal cords of the whistler.

At the far end of the corridor, another unmarked white door opened. Miller released his mouth abruptly, shoving Bruce behind his back. Infuriated and blind, he struggled against the mountain of muscle to no avail.

The whistling ceased. 

Miller’s grip on Bruce tightened as he took a step back.

“I hope you aren’t the only member of the welcoming committee,” a chillingly amused voice drawled. That voice...the grit, the grin, it dragged at Bruce’s memories and he knew exactly who was standing in front of them.

“How’d you get out?” Miller asked, tremble almost unnoticeable.

“How’d I get out? You ask like it was difficult. I told ‘em to let me out, of course. I spent two weeks in that hole. Shame really. So much wasted time. Not to worry, though. I’ll give ‘em a chance to make it up to me.” There was a pause. “What’s that ya got there?”

The hands dropped from around him as Miller presented his empty arms. “Nothing.”

He knew there was no way in hell Bruce would just give himself up. Miller trusted him not to move. The thought briefly warmed his heart.  _ There are still good people in Gotham, _ he reminded himself.

“‘Course. It’s nothin’. You know little ol’ me. Just so paranoid. Really, I’ve gotta snap out of it. Always think someone’s gonna-” the new arrival did something that forced Miller to take an involuntary step back, pushing Bruce, “-get ya!” he finished with an enthused cackle. His laugh sent more shivers down Bruce’s spine, rivalled only by the memories sparking in his mind.

Another alarm blared throughout the asylum. Even Miller glanced up at the intercom. “This is Doctor Penelope Young reporting from the northern watchtower. Maximum-security patient Jerome Valeska has broken out of his cell and has been missing for exactly three minutes and thirty-six seconds. The building is on full lockdown, effective immediately. I repeat, Jerome Valeska has left his cell. The building is on full lockdown, effective immediately. Guards Eddie Burlow and Zack Franklin are unresponsive, a security team has been dispatched. Acting director Charles Nigaff is also unresponsive. The building will remain locked down until Valeska is apprehended and returned to his sector. All available nurses and psychiatric aides, report to your superiors and provide any support necessary. Security staff, initiate Lockdown Protocol Eight.” 

The system cut off in a muffled blur as the flickering overhead lights dimmed. Once the halls entered full darkness, red emergency lights came up. Miller tensed visibly. Yet, all Bruce could think about was Jeremiah, somewhere in Arkham with the missing psychiatrist, now aware that his one nightmare could come true at this very moment. But Bruce wouldn’t let that happen. Because Jeremiah’s nightmare was standing right in front of him, still cackling gleefully.

“Y’here that?” Jerome asked between chuckles. “I didn’t think I was that big of a deal. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the theatrics are appreciated. But really, what am I gonna do? Now I feel like I have to make a big show of it. I  _ was  _ just gonna nip on over to the cafeteria and have those nice ladies cook me up something a little more...well,  _ edible. _ But now it’s a  _ thing. _ Now...they’re all expecting a show. Do I really wanna put in all that effort though? ‘Course not. Am I going to?” Bruce heard a loud crack, and suddenly Miller’s body went slack. “Absolutely.”

And then he crumpled to the ground, leaving Bruce exposed and unarmed in front of Jerome Valeska. Those turquoise eyes Bruce had gotten so familiar with turned on him, full of surprise. But they housed a madness Jeremiah’s never reflected. No. These eyes, Bruce was familiar with for a different reason. Standing in front of him, he felt thirteen again. Alone in a room full of people. Scared, but bravely defiant.

“You  _ must _ be joking,” Jerome gaped. Bruce briefly noted the hammer dangling from his hand and glanced at Miller’s twitching body, putting two and two together.

“I’m-” his voice came out quiet. Bruce swallowed, before trying again. “I’m afraid not.”

“No.” Jerome crossed his arms. “Leave. Get out. Now.”

“I-what?” He must’ve heard him wrong.

“Entitled rich kid,” Jerome muttered, stepping around Miller on his way past Bruce. And no, he was no longer thirteen at a hospital benefit, or even fifteen at the amusement park. He was seventeen, at Arkham Asylum, and Jerome Valeska, in all his facially-marred glory, was refusing to look at him. Maybe he had a death wish. Maybe he just couldn’t stand that the eyes Bruce had fallen in love with were shared by this insufferable murderer, but he blocked Jerome’s path.

“The entire asylum is on lockdown. You’re not going anywhere.”

Jerome pressed a comically gloved hand to his temple.  _ The same way Jeremiah does, _ Bruce unconsciously registered. “Look, kid. As much as I’d like to off you right here, that would screw up like a year and a half of hard work and I’m just not ready to throw all that away. So stop being selfish and let me through.”

He was being  _ selfish?  _ “I’m going to turn you over to security.”

A sinister grin tugged at Jerome’s lips. “Brucie, just because I won’t kill you yet, doesn’t mean I won’t hurt ya.” His grip on the hammer tightened.

Bruce took a step forward, closing the gap between him and Jerome. “You can try.” He needed to distract Jerome until the guards found him and he knew Jeremiah was safe.

The grin immediately dropped off Jerome’s face. “See, this. This is exactly what I didn’t want.” He spotted Bruce’s confused expression. “No, no. Don’t get me wrong. I want to kill ya! I really do,” Jerome reassured him. “It’s just, the timing doesn’t feel right. The atmosphere’s all wrong. And I want to do this properly, y’know? For everything we’ve been through together,”

Why did Jerome sound like he was trying to explain to his date why he wasn’t taking them home? “We haven’t been through anything  _ together,”  _ Bruce clarified coldly. “I’ve been through two evenings full of trauma that not even the best counselor could pick apart and you’ve been the  _ catalyst _ of that trauma. There’s nothing remotely even about it.”

“You don’t think any of that wasn’t traumatic for me? You straddled me in a house of mirrors and punched my face off. Literally. It slipped into a puddle. I had to  _ wring out my face _ before I could  _ staple it back on.  _ Not to mention the fact that I set up such a lovely evening for us and you didn’t even have the decency to die on cue! Clearly, you don’t understand how embarrassing that was for me. I’d promised all these people, my friends, my followers, myself, that I’d explode you with a cannon in a beautiful blaze of gunpowder, rusty nails, and actual knives, and you had to pull a filthy hero’s trick and vanish into thin air! It was mortifying. I still haven’t recovered.” Bruce opened his mouth to defend himself, but Jerome cut him off. “And y’know what else was traumatic? Our only other meeting where I, oh I don’t know, got  _ stabbed _ on live television! I physically, emotionally, clinically, and spiritually died. But  _ no, _ you’re the one with all the trauma and piling therapy bills. At least my therapy’s free because I’m incarcerated in a house chock-full of  _ lunatics!" _

“Perhaps if you didn’t decide to kill people, you wouldn’t have had those experiences,” Bruce shot back. Why the hell was he standing here arguing with Jerome Valeska?

Jerome clicked his tongue, hammer fully forgotten. “Bruce.  _ Bruce. _ One doesn’t simply  _ decide _ to kill people. One is  _ chosen _ to kill people. It’s an art. A calling, if you will.”

“No.”

He raised a daring eyebrow. “No?”

Bruce took another step forward. They were almost nose-to-nose. “Those are the words of a murderer. The excuses of a killer.”

“Ah, but it takes one to know one…” Jerome grinned poisonously. “Doesn’t it?”

Caught off guard, he stuttered, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Those turquoise eyes were alight with mania. “You’ve killed. And recently too. I can still see it. Oh, it’s all very tongue-in-cheek, your attitude, but I can still see it.”

“How?” Bruce managed to get out, voice threatening to choke him.

Jerome met his icy gaze, rapture in his smile. “Your eyes. All of that sticky-sweet innocence I wanted to tear from them bit by bit...it’s gone. All of it. But not quite replaced. No...you’re still missing something.” The fascination drained from his tone, which suddenly became very business-like. “Don’t worry, though! Soon, that void will be filled. Jonny’s brewin’ up somethin’ special. I think you’ll like it. I really do! Look, I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve got a lot to do and very little time. So, I’m just gonna nip in those two doors,” he pointed at a pair of neighboring cells, “And be on my merry way. Capiche?”

The spell of his gaze broke. Bruce shook his head, taking a step back. “No. Everyone in the asylum is looking for you. I’m turning you in. And they’ll send you back to…Where did you come from?”

Luckily, Jerome was in a chatty mood. “Solitary confinement. Tried to put on a one-man play, apparently it was too ‘triggering’ for some of the patients. Set ‘em off, caused a big uproar. Lots of brutally maimed sociopaths. You’d think I was doing the doctors a favor, but I guess the execution was a bit sloppy. So I got two weeks in the hole. Hard to break out of that place. About four floors down and swarming with guards who have absolutely no sense of humor. They had to move me though, somethin’ about a renovation?” Jerome hefted his hammer. “Stole this off one of my escorts, taught him how to use it properly, then demonstrated for his friend just in case he didn’t get it the first time. Worked like a charm. They’re definitely...how did Penny put it…oh, yeah, ‘unresponsive.’”

Bruce’s stomach twisted. “You’re sick.”

“Mentally ill, so I’m told.” Jerome moved before Bruce could react, knocking on the cell doors he’d pointed out earlier. “Jonny! Hathead! Hustle, we’re on a very tight schedule.”

“A moment, if you please,” a passive voice called through the door.

“Yes a moment more, I implore,” the other cell’s occupant responded.

Thinking fast, Bruce smashed one of the red emergency lights lining the walls. Jerome looked at him, but seemed rather unconcerned. Picking up the largest pieces of glass he could find in the darkness, Bruce took aim with one and threw.

“What the-?” The hammer thumped to the floor as Bruce hit his target. Jerome examined his hand, then reached for the fallen weapon. Bruce flung another piece, catching him in the shoulder. The sociopath was barely deterred. Admittedly, this was one of Bruce’s shittier plans. Hammer in hand, he watched Bruce in disappointment. “This is pathetic, Brucie, even for you. Although it does give me an odd sense of deja-vu.” Jerome nudged the door closest to him. “Pull out a dose of that 36b I like so much, would ya Jonny?”

Bruce was out of glass and out of ideas. Jerome hadn’t even advanced on him, but his eyes never strayed far. He could run for it. But then Jerome and whoever he was gathering would get away. And he really didn’t want to find out what 36b was. Suddenly, the second door swung open and out stepped a small man with a head of curly hair barely concealed by a newspaper top hat. Bruce recognized him from the news. “Jervis Tetch...” he murmured aloud.

“In the flesh, and you…?” Jervis responded curiously. “Ah, captive number two. Jerome, your plan has gone rather askew.”

“Cut the rhymes, Hathead. What do you mean?”

Jervis nose scrunched. “I  _ mean _ both of your targets just happen to be in Arkham the day you plan to escape. It’s all very convenient.”

“Wait,  _ both _ of my targets? He’s here too?” Jerome’s eyes had gone wide. Of course. He hadn’t known Jeremiah was in the building.

“I was going to tell you,” Jervis hastily defended himself. “As soon as you got out of solitary. The doc brought him in to fix the doors.”

Jerome rounded on him. “Then why are you here?”

The last thing Bruce could do was say he was here to protect Jeremiah. That would create a whole different slew of problems, and most likely, fatal wounds. And it was at that moment that, still tight within his grasp, Jeremiah’s phone rang.

“Answer it,” Jerome whispered, eyes fixed on the device. “Put it on speaker.”

Both sociopaths watched him eagerly as Bruce flipped open the phone and pressed the speaker button. A cool female voice spoke, “Not to alarm you Mr. Valeska, but Bruce Wayne is missing. I assumed he was sleeping, but when I went to check, both his bed and yours were vacant. I’ve surveyed all the cameras and manually searched every room he could have accessed. His vehicle has also vanished. I understand that losing track of him could result in the termination of my position, and I will readily accept those consequences. Now that you are aware of the situation, please inform me of my next directive.”

“Ecco, we’re at Arkham, I need you to-” Bruce spoke as quickly as he could, but dropped the phone as the hammer was brought down on his wrist. White pain flared through his arm. The device shattered at his feet. A wave of dizziness swept over Bruce, but he did his best to fight it back. Glaring up at Jerome who was twirling the weapon between his fingers, he hissed, “Backup is coming. Neither of you are making it out of here.”

“That’s not what I’m interested in right now. I want to know what you’re doing with my brother’s cellphone, and more importantly, in my brother’s bed. And where the hell he is now.” Jerome wasn’t grinning anymore.  His flat expression conveyed more fury than any smile of his ever had.

Telling Jerome the truth could get him killed. Lying to him would definitely get him killed if he found out. So, Bruce gave him half of the truth. “We’re colleagues, Jeremiah and I. He works for Wayne Enterprises. I’ve barely known him for two months. We’ve been working on a project together, I stayed late at his house finishing it, so I spent the night. Not like that,” he added after seeing Jerome’s expression. Blushing inexplicably, he continued, “He, um, left his phone when he came here so I thought I should return it to him in case he needed it. I don’t know where he is. It’s quite possible he left already.”

Jerome’s eyes flickered up and down Bruce as he said, “Figured he’d beat me to it. Take me to him.”

Bruce didn’t waver. “He’s not here.”

The door Jerome had been standing in front of opened slowly, revealing a small figure draped in a tattered cloak and hood. “36b, as requested,” a male voice stated, passing over a small canister.

Jerome accepted it and leered at Bruce. “It’s your lucky day, Brucie boy. Very soon, I will find you, and that traitorous brat brother of mine, and kill you. Slowly, painfully, as you watch Gotham crumble before your eyes in a blaze of madness, the likes of which you’ve never seen. But until then, have a nice long rest. You’ll need your strength.”

Without thinking, Bruce did what he should have done ages ago and ran. The sound of spraying chemicals followed him, the misty green cloud engulfing his senses. Ahead of Bruce, the door he’d been aiming for seemed to shrink. He tried not to breath in, but as the hallway grew longer and longer, he grew more and more exhausted. Unable to stand it anymore, he inhaled sharply and coughed, tasting sulfur and peroxide. Bruce collapsed to the ground, vision phasing in and out. He closed his eyes. Footsteps, larger than life, echoed down the hall. And then the whistling resumed, a terrifying children’s song filling his ears and his mind. The distorted, reverberating melody was the last thing Bruce heard as the world kept spinning, until his mind could no longer realize the whistling had faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Sorry this one took so long to get out, it was significantly longer and more intricate. It's time to realize that Bruce and Jeremiah can't stay in their safe little bubble for ever; this is Gotham, after all. I hope you all enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to leave any comments or criticism!


	12. Cartwheels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some quick notes here before you dive in: This chapter is dialogue-heavy, so be prepared for that. However this chapter is also crucial to the direction of the plot, so please bear with me for now.
> 
> Much of the chemistry (actual science not romance sorry) referred to in this chapter is purely surface-level and most likely a bit inaccurate, so if I have any scientifically-inclined readers, please forgive me, I'm far more familiar with social sciences~
> 
> All of that aside, I hope you enjoy the chapter! Thank you!

_ (Jeremiah’s POV) _

Darkness. A dull, throbbing pain in his skull. These were the first sensations to trickle back into reality. He felt his head lolling on his shoulder. Slowly, carefully, Jeremiah tried to look up. Dizziness filled him, but after a moment, he could blink his groggy eyes open. His senses felt dulled, weightless. A circle of sterile white light flooded the room. Or rather, the round platform he found himself on. White flakes floated down from the ceiling, Jeremiah’s detached gaze following them. Some distant part of him registered that the room must’ve had walls demolished recently. Drywall was exposed in vertical lines, marking areas where other rooms once stood. The chair he was strapped to was raised in the center of the windowless room, a tall leather chair directly across from him. Musty air filled his nose; he must still be in the basement of Arkham.

The stinging pain in his neck reminded Jeremiah of what had just transpired. What had Nigaff injected him with? How long had he been knocked out for? He struggled and pulled against his restraints, but the straps showed no signs of giving. Besides, he tired rapidly, and couldn’t find the will to keep struggling. Craning his neck, he tried to catch a glimpse of the room’s outer edges, but they were shrouded in darkness. The only illumination came from an interrogation lamp dangling directly between the two chairs. His only pinprick of relief was the idea that Bruce was safely at the bunker, perhaps enjoying a cup of coffee. In an attempt to calm himself down, Jeremiah tried to visualize it: Bruce, still wearing that white shirt of Jeremiah’s, sitting at his desk and flipping through old projects. He could see the porcelain mug, maybe the blue one, clasped between those pale fingers, warming him in the cold of early morning. He could imagine each messy curl of his hair, especially that stubborn one that always hung down against his forehead. The intrinsic tilt of his chin as he studied a note that caught his attention, the sparkle in his dark eyes lit up by the discovery of something new.

Sharp, quick footsteps echoing on concrete shattered Jeremiah’s sense of security. Snapping his neck up, he tried to find the source of it but the harsh light made it difficult to see anything past the edges of the platform. Then the gleam caught on the rim of a pair of red, round glasses, and a man came into view. A small, bald man with cruel eyes and a pleasant smile. All Jeremiah could do was defiantly hold Hugo Strange’s piercing gaze as he settled into the chair opposite him.

“You’re a difficult man to get ahold of, Jeremiah Valeska.” The doctor’s voice was poisonously smooth. If Jeremiah didn’t know better, Strange’s tone could easily put him at ease.

Biting his tongue, he replied, “Nonetheless, I’m not so difficult to get ahold of that all of  _ this  _ is necessary.” Jeremiah’s words came out a bit fuzzy, but Strange gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, you can understand if I’m being somewhat cautious.”

“I’d probably be discreet in my kidnappings as well, if I were a wanted man,” Jeremiah reflected flatly.

Strange’s smile grew. “You remind me of your brother. That sharp tongue is a favorite weapon of his.”

Jeremiah said nothing. He had no desire to be compared to Jerome. Especially when he was strapped to a chair in the basement of an insane asylum. But Strange used to be the chief psychiatrist of Arkham, arguably the best one they’d had. He smelled emotional trauma like police hounds scented meth.

“You stiffened at the mention of your brother,” Strange observed. “I wonder whether that stems from resentment or fear. Or both.”

Many things made Jeremiah feel uneasy. A breeze blowing through his bunker, an almost completed puzzle missing a single piece, the look that used to cross his brother’s face after Jeremiah and their mother spoke in hushed tones. But his situation here in Arkham forced that bud of unease to blossom into an itching, ever-present, whispering terror. He was at the mercy of Hugo Strange, an emotionless, remorseless scientist that revelled in the manipulation of minds and distorting of forms. He had tortured, killed, reprogrammed, and reanimated human beings in this very basement for far longer than the rest of Gotham knew. And Jeremiah knew none of it weighed on his conscious, a conscious that he had fallen prey to, and could very well never walk away from. So he asked a different question.

“What did you do to me?”

“Are you experiencing dizziness and fatigue? Perhaps you feel as though your senses are muffled?”

Jeremiah nodded.

The psychiatrist seemed unconcerned. “That’s to be expected. I had Doctor Nigaff give you a small dosage of a compound that encourages honesty and openness. Nothing detrimental to the system, just something to take the weight off your inhibitions a bit.”

He couldn’t muster a reply to that, besides a distant notion of dismay.

Hugo Strange leaned forward in his seat, undeterred by Jeremiah’s unresponsiveness. “I’ve brought you here, Jeremiah, to unlock your potential. You see, you fascinate me. Your upbringing, your life now. And to discover your inner purpose, we need to start at the very beginning. From a young age, you resented Jerome. I could certainly guess as to why, but I’d like to hear it from you. That’s all I want, Jeremiah. I just want to listen to you. I doubt you get that opportunity often.”

He was right. No one ever just wanted to hear what Jeremiah had to say. And Strange was giving him an open invitation. Besides, what else could he do but talk?

Taking a deep breath, Jeremiah repeated the lines he’d always rehearsed in his head. “Jerome and I...we disagreed, as kids. We always wanted to do things differently. If we wanted to make mom breakfast in bed, I’d try to find out what she liked over weeks of subtle questions while Jerome just outright told her what we were planning. If the other kids in the circus wanted to play, Jerome had to be the center of attention, the leader. I was the kid who gave up after a few minutes and wandered off to collect daisies from the field by the trailer to bring home. He wanted to be in a band, or the movies. Something where people would admire him. I wanted a quiet job where my choices held no bearing on others. I used to tell him he should go into politics for a more stable career, since he had this charisma that won people over with a bat of his eyes. But he’d just laugh and say he had a funny feeling he wouldn’t fit in. And in a way, I was right. He did go into politics. As a terrorist.”

The psychiatrist’s intrigue remained as he spoke. “Yes, you were very different. Did you dislike him because he wasn’t like you?”

Jeremiah had never really thought about it. “No, that wasn’t why. I was- I mean, I guess I couldn’t stand how people fell over their feet for him. At least, they did at first. If Jerome wanted something, and it was attainable, he got it. I remember one time, we were six. We’d both asked for the same thing for Christmas. A little windup snow globe we’d seen in the visitor’s center of this city that the circus had settled in for winter. It wasn’t all that spectacular, it was just your average city-pride advertisement. But it played this song that our Aunt Dahlia used to hum for us when we couldn’t sleep. That was the winter after she’d passed away, and both of us had strained our ears every night for a glimpse of her melody. 

“When Christmas morning finally came, Jerome and I eagerly unwrapped our presents under the little plastic tree Mother used to put out on the counter, hoping to hold the snow globe in our hands. I can remember the look on Jerome’s face when I unwrapped that little snow globe and wound up its song. He couldn’t believe that I had gotten something he so desperately wanted. It was new, unexpected. I felt guilty about it, so I offered to share. We would set it on the table between our two beds. He agreed so very happily in front of our mother, who had had enough eggnog at that point to be watching her sons in a blissful haze. But later that night, as we crawled into bed, I wound the music box up again so it could play while we fell asleep. Jerome asked me if I missed her. I told him of course I did. And then I heard the sound of him getting out of bed, followed by the shattering of glass and the dying of Aunt Dahlia’s melody, this time for good. He got back into bed like nothing happened. I cried, and asked him why he did it. He told me that the snow globe hadn’t been given to him, so he wasn’t allowed to miss her. The following morning, I swept up the glass and the tiny buildings and the glitter before Mother found out. We never mentioned the snow globe again.”

Something in Jeremiah’s chest caught. Clearing his throat, he tried to get his emotions back under control. He’d never shared that story with anyone. It wasn’t important anymore, but it was personal. And now it was in the possession of a mad scientist.

But the look Hugo Strange gave him was so understanding, it tugged at that same part of Jeremiah’s chest. “And I’m sure that’s not the only story like that, is it?”

He shook his head. “No, but it’s probably the easiest one to tell. They get...colder, after that.”

“Colder?” the doctor asked curiously. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“I-” Jeremiah didn’t want to continue. He didn’t like thinking about what happened. “Nothing. I’m not even sure what I meant.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Jeremiah,” Strange told him gently.

He told him what he’d told his mother eleven years ago when she’d whispered the same thing. “I think I do.”

“Then talk to me about. You’ve been holding this in for far too long. It’s all in the past now. It can’t hurt to tell someone what happened.”

The accumulated guilt of fifteen years was weighing on him like a pile of bricks. No one knew what he had done except for him and Jerome. And if he told Hugo Strange, his secret was out for good. “I-I can’t.”

“Yes you can. You’re so very resilient. Gotham is lucky to have you.”

And that’s what broke Jeremiah. “No!” he shouted. Startled by his own loudness, he shrunk back into his seat. “No,” he repeated quietly. “The choices I’ve made, the things I’ve said...Gotham should hate me. I’ve caused the deaths of so many people. Every speck of blood on Jerome’s hands is on my own twofold.”

His glasses must fogging up. Where else could the blurriness in his eyes have come from?

“Why? You didn’t kill those people.” Strange pressed.

“I might as well have! I turned Jerome into the monster he is today, my own brother. It’s my fault.” Jeremiah had never lost his composure quite like this. He wanted to scream, but didn’t have the courage.

“Say it again.”

Shakily, Jeremiah repeated. “It’s my fault.”

“What could you have done to change things?”

Jeremiah knew the answer. He’d been pulling his hair out over that question for years. “I could’ve kept my mouth shut. I could’ve not overreacted. I could’ve learned to appreciate my brother rather than shove him out of my life. I could’ve figured out that I wasn’t a victim. I could’ve tried to understand him. I could’ve not turned our entire family against him. I could’ve done so many different things, all of them better than the one I chose.”

Strange never looked away from him. “And what did you choose to do?”

“I chose to hurt him,” Jeremiah whispered. “I hated him. I hated him so much it hurt, and I wanted him to hurt like I did. So every time I hurt, I told our mother that he’d hurt me. Every time he smiled with just a little too much joy, I told her he’d threatened me with a kitchen knife. When he laughed a little too loudly, I told her he’d mutilated the trapeze couple’s new kitten. He didn’t.”

“Did  _ you?” _

“Yes,” he answered softly. “I needed her to believe me.” Now that he was speaking, the words were easier to force out. “I told her that he’d set my bed on fire; I’d scorched my own sheets with the kitchen firestarter that morning when Jerome had gone with Mother to prep Shiba for the evening show. Before bed, I’d whispered that Jerome had used my hands as darts practice. In the morning, I’d tell her that he’d tried to suffocate me with a plastic bag. Eventually, I convinced her that I wasn’t safe around Jerome, that he was trying to kill me and it would only be a matter of time before he succeeded. So she sent me away to St. Ignatius, and I never saw her again. From her letters, I’d gleaned what the news exposed years later. Jerome may have been able to stay with her, but she made his life a living hell. To be fair, she never mentioned him by name. She was so convinced that her son was the spawn of the devil, a changeling child. So different from the joyful little ringleader she’d raised. Her letters started coming less and less frequently, and each one was more incoherent than the last. Finally, seven years later, Jerome truly snapped, and then our mother was dead. And that should’ve been the end of it. An ugly, misconstrued, sick little story about the snake dancer’s sons. But I guess after so many years of abuse and neglect, the attention murdering gave Jerome was like a breath of fresh air, so he clung to it. And here we are now. The truth is finally out. He wouldn’t have killed all those people if I hadn’t pushed him to do it. I’m just as much of a monster as he is.”

Strange didn’t look at him any differently. His expression betrayed nothing but kindness. It didn’t seem genuine. Jeremiah would’ve preferred anger or disgust. He could handle those, he’d been preparing for them. He thought he’d feel better after finally pouring out the words he’d kept locked inside him for years, but he just felt...empty.

“And yet you’ve sat all these years, comfortable enough to watch as your brother steps foot into the world and leaves nothing but death and destruction in his wake. If you felt so responsible, Jeremiah, then where were you when the lights went out across the city and everyday citizens ran about murdering each other in their homes?”

The doctor’s words stung like wasps’ stings through gauze. Jeremiah almost couldn’t feel them, but he knew he was supposed to. “I was designing a banking firm for Meyer & Heyes,” he answered, voice hollow.

“If you were so convinced it was all utterly your fault, then where were you when Jerome massacred half the police department and commissioner Sarah Essen for the whole world to see?”

Jeremiah held his gaze. “I was constructing an underground chemical analysis system.”

Strange inched closer on his seat. “And where were you when Jerome hijacked a children’s hospital benefit and held a dagger to Bruce Wayne’s throat as a publicity-oh?”

A sharp intake of breath betrayed him. Jeremiah hadn’t meant to react, but the image of Jerome holding Bruce’s life in his bloody fingers made him inexplicably infuriated. 

“That was a rather strong reaction, Jeremiah. Let’s discuss that for a moment. Was that event somehow more upsetting to you than the others?”

Jeremiah gave a small shake of his head, almost imperceptible.

“Did you watch the live broadcast of that night?”

“Of course I did. Everyone did.”

“Did you perhaps feel a connection to the Wayne boy, sympathy for him, both of you being victims of Jerome? That is, if you ever actually were a victim.” Strange’s inquisitive stare froze him in place. Jeremiah didn’t know how to respond.

Finally, he ventured, “I think it’s safe to ascertain that every sound-minded citizen in Gotham felt a measure of sympathy for him.”

Strange smiled. “That’s interesting. You see, Jeremiah, you do this odd thing when you’re trying to deflect questions from yourself. You put up this facade, of sorts, using complex language and reflexive statements. But, of course, if you’re not willing to vocally acknowledge what your body language tells me, we can continue to sit here and puzzle it out together.”

He studied his hands, cheek between his teeth. Bruce was the one thing he refused to talk about in this forced therapy session. The truth tugged at his tongue, and he wanted to release everything, but as long as he told the doctor something with a semblance of honesty, not enough drugs in the world could make him.

“I understand. Then let’s look a little deeper into that evening, shall we? After all, your brother died. How did you feel when you watched ex-mayor Theo Galavan kill Jerome?

“Relieved,” Jeremiah answered automatically.

“How so?”

“Well, I assumed that he’d want revenge on me for ruining his life. I was the most obvious target. And when I saw he murdered Paul Cicero, I thought he was coming after members of Haly’s, which painted yet another target on my back. In short, it was only a matter of time before he got to me. I guess I was most relieved that there wasn’t a chance of my secret getting out. Since he was killed, the secret died with him.”

The doctor gave him a patient frown. “That’s not why Jerome murdered Paul Cicero.”

Confused, Jeremiah asked, “What do you mean? Why else would he have murdered him? Cicero was old and blind. He couldn’t have hurt Jerome.”

“Oh dear, Jeremiah, I thought you knew.”

Anxiety fluttered in his chest. “Knew what?”

“Paul Cicero was your father. After he helped Jerome hide Lila’s body, Jerome framed him for the Arkham Breakout. He painted your father’s death as suicide to cement the story of an insane old man that loved his son, but couldn’t stand the monster he’d become.”

All Jeremiah could hear was the ringing in his ears. Paul Cicero, the ancient blind fortune teller,  _ was his father? _ He’d never liked Jeremiah. In fact, he’d taken great pleasure in telling Jeremiah that he’d never amount to anything. Apparently he was too apathetic, too drawn to his mazes for the old man’s taste. But he’d always taken a special interest in Jerome. Jeremiah had always thought it was just because he was a bitter, lonely man, and Jerome’s presence brightened his sorry days. And now he was just supposed to accept Cicero as his  _ father?  _ The chances of him sending Jerome a birthday present were higher.

“That...doesn’t matter to me,” Jeremiah finally to get out. “I don’t care. It doesn’t change anything. And if he really was our father, then he definitely had a favorite. Perhaps it was for the best that he wasn’t a constant presence in our lives.”

“You’re angry,” Strange coaxed. “That’s a perfectly normal reaction to be having. He wasn’t a very good father, and I’m sure you preferred that he stay out of your life. I’m simply sorry that you had to find out this way.”

Jeremiah just shrugged in response. He couldn’t feel anything. Not anger towards Paul Cicero, and strangely enough, not guilt for his death. That’s odd. He always felt guilt.

Strange sought Jeremiah’s gaze again. “Let’s set aside that, then, and talk about something else. We discussed your brother’s death, and the relief you associated with that. Now, let’s talk about his resurrection. The day he came back. How did you feel?”

Shifting in his seat, he thought back to that afternoon when Jerome’s broadcast came over the news. He’d been creating a model in his bunker for the exterior of a bank, listening to the live-coverage of the imposter’s hostage situation. The whole face thing made him sick. Everyone saw it as a maniac wearing Jerome’s face, but Jeremiah saw it as a stranger wearing his own face, as well as his brother’s. It was a double-dose of uncomfortable. And then the footage had cut out, and when it resumed, the sight was more gruesome than he could’ve ever imagined.

“I was terrified,” Jeremiah admitted.

“You thought he would seek you out?”

“Of course I did. That would’ve been the next logical step, after punishing the man who cut off his face.”

“And so, you must’ve felt more relief when he went after Bruce Wayne again- ah, there it is. That telltale clenching of your jaw. It’s very noticeable, Jeremiah. What about Bruce Wayne makes you react in such a way? Do you dislike him, or have had a disagreement in the past, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Do you know him personally?”

The serum’s effects had the answer forced off the tip of his tongue; it’d been hovering there for too long. “Yes.”

Strange seemed to have picked up on the way his injection manipulated Jeremiah’s words. “How do you know Bruce Wayne?”

_ Stay ambiguous, _ Jeremiah reminded himself. “Everyone in Gotham has met Bruce Wayne one way or another. He’s the city’s own version of royalty, after all.”

“When was the last time you saw Bruce?”

“This morning.” The reply slipped out before Jeremiah even realized he’d spoken. Something was causing the serum to increase in potency. His increase in blood flow, perhaps?

“This morning?” the doctor repeated, intrigue evident in his expression. “Where did you see him?”

Jeremiah bit his tongue, drawing blood in an attempt to keep his mouth shut.

Somehow, Strange shifted even farther forward in his chair. “Allow me to repeat the question. Where did you last see Bruce Wayne?”

“In my room, standing by the closet,” he whispered. “He was wearing my shirt. And he was angry with me; I told him he couldn’t come to Arkham. I wanted to keep him safe.”

A flicker of surprise betrayed Strange. An eyebrow raised, he pressed, “What is your relationship with Bruce Wayne?”

_ No. No, he didn’t want to talk about this. Bruce could get hurt.  _ More blood sprung from Jeremiah’s mouth as he tried to force himself into silence.

Strange got to his feet, sweeping past Jeremiah to do something out of his view. He tried to twist in his seat, to see what was happening, but the restraints kept him firmly in place. A moment later, he returned, syringe in hand.

Jeremiah’s eyes widened. “No. Please. Keep that away from me.” He wasn’t typically the kind of man to beg, but not being in control of his mind could be a dangerous thing.

“I think a higher dose may be in order, Jeremiah, if you’re going to continue lying to me.” A wicked gleam had entered the psychiatrist’s eyes. He clearly took joy in watching Jeremiah drown in his own fear.

“I haven’t lied to you,” he gasped. “Not a single time.”

“Perhaps not, but you’re certainly concealing information from me, and that’s not very conducive to treatment. I’ve prepared a stronger formula, for an occasion such as this, and I think you’ll find its results are rather immediate. Although, you may experience some unpleasant side effects.”

Jeremiah thrashed in his chair, wrenching his neck away from the exposed tip of the needle. Strange made a  _ tsk _ in the back of his throat and grabbed a handful of Jeremiah’s hair, forcing him back against the seat. A sharp cry escaped him, the telltale pinprick settling in his flesh. A very full sensation of cold flooded him, that was the only way he could describe it. And then the weightlessness returned, far stronger than it had been upon his awakening. He was floating, light as a feather. His mind had joined the white flakes drifting down from the ceiling in a shower of industrial illumination. All of his worrisome thoughts drained from his fingertips. He was free.

“Ah, there it is. I feel like we can make some real progress now, Jeremiah. Can you hear me?”

Strange’s voice echoed all around him. A thunderous, yet distant sound. Yes, he nodded. How could he  _ not _ hear him? Wait, where was he? It took a moment to realize the doctor had settled back in his seat. Jeremiah tried to distinguish his expression, but it was blurred beyond recognition.

“I’m going to repeat the question I asked you earlier, and I’d like you to answer in detailed honesty. We cannot access your inner potential without first understanding what motivates you, after all.” That made sense to Jeremiah. He found himself nodding along with the psychiatrist’s words. “What is the nature of your relationship with Bruce Wayne?”

This time, the answer drifted out of him with ease. “I don’t know.”

Strange squinted. “Elaborate, if you would. Why don’t you know?”

Jeremiah was feeling rather conversational now, a pleasant fuzziness had settled in his head. It felt like being drunk, but without the buried headache and regret. “I mean, I don’t know. Earlier this morning, he casually called me his boyfriend but I didn’t really have enough time to stick around and ask about that. I don’t feel like it’s been long enough, if that makes sense.”

“If what’s been long enough?” The pitch of the doctor’s voice no longer filled the room, which was a nice change.

With a frown, he answered, “Seeing him. If that’s what we’re doing. Technically, I work for him.” A thought suddenly struck him. “Which would make our relationship entirely inappropriate. I have to tell him! Or the company. I can’t keep secrets from them. Or you. But now you know,” he added after a second. Jeremiah’s pulse seemed to be racing at a hundred miles an hour, and it was hard to stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. He just needed to speak. Was Strange satisfied with his response? Perhaps he should continue to elaborate. He’d asked him to say more. “I met him in a nightclub. Bruce, I mean. He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But once I got the chance to be close to him, I saw how lost he was. He didn’t want to be there, but he felt like he was  _ supposed _ to be there. Does that make sense? And when he couldn’t recognize who  _ I _ was, it was like I could start over. I was liberated, free, around him. And somehow, I kept seeing him. He’d find these little roundabout excuses for us to meet up. I think he was trying to escape something; I was happy to be his escape. But now, I think, he’s coming to terms with the thing that drove him into my arms. I’m scared that, once he does, I’ll lose him. He won’t need me anymore.” Jeremiah found himself desperately searching Strange’s face for answers. “What am I supposed to do if he decides he doesn’t need me?”

Something resembling victory crossed the psychiatrist’s face as Jeremiah spoke. Vaguely, he wondered what brought it on.

Strange tilted his head. “Do you like the idea of Bruce being dependent on you?”

The rational part of Jeremiah screamed no. He knew that was unhealthy. But that part of him was quelled with the chemicals in his bloodstream. He blinked. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want to protect him.”

“From what?”

“Everything. His nightmares, his guilt, his undying need to be a hero. It’s going to kill him. He’s going to get himself killed.” Jeremiah hadn’t even known the answer to this question until his mouth voluntarily gave it.

With satisfied relish, Strange asked, “Do you know where Bruce Wayne is now?”

“In my house, I presume. That’s where I left him, at least.”

“And if you were wrong?”

Anxiety twisted his gut, breaking the bliss that had settled over him.  _ “Am _ I wrong?”

Strange smiled, a look that didn’t match the situation at all. “Dreadfully so, I’m afraid.” Before Jeremiah could react, the doctor snapped his fingers once. The sound filled the empty space, larger than should’ve been possible. Across the room, the screeching of old wheels against concrete could be heard. “Dr. Nigaff, punctual as always.” 

The floating sensation remained, but now it was heavy and unwelcome. Jeremiah couldn’t pull together the drifting pieces of his psyche; instead, he could only distantly register the white mass that seemed to have materialised behind Hugo Strange, arm thrown over a larger, darker shape.

“Now that you’ve gotten the information you sought, shall we clear his head a bit?” the white mass spoke. Jeremiah squinted, and Charles Nigaff came into perception.

“That’s a splendid idea. I do so want him to fully comprehend the stimuli you present.”

Jeremiah watched as Nigaff’s form streaked past him, presumably to wherever Strange had gone earlier. Not a moment later, a large cold hand gripped his throat, pushing in a needle before he even knew it was there. The three of them waited in silence. And then warmth spread through his veins, washing out the incorporeal, weighted bleakness. And the compulsion to say anything Strange wanted to hear.

The psychiatrist snapped his fingers again. Jeremiah blinked. “Can you hear me, Jeremiah?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Yes, you’re certainly free of the serum’s influence. Excellent. Now, Charles, please, show Mr. Valeska here what sort of situation Mr. Wayne has gotten himself into.” Strange stood and moved to the side of the platform, giving Jeremiah a clear view of what he now realized was a large monitor. Nigaff returned to his post by the monitor and clicked a remote.

The first thing Jeremiah noted was the timestamp on what appeared to be security footage. 8:43. He’d been in Arkham for a little over an hour. But as he looked closer at the video, his stomach dropped. The footage was grainy, and the hall was poorly lit, but there was no way he’d be able to mistake the two figures standing so close it hurt. Bruce was there, in the center of Arkham’s maximum security ward. Evidently he’d found clothes that fit him. His jaw was set in anger. Jeremiah didn’t blame him. He’d be furious too if he were standing nose-to-nose with Jerome. Clutching a utility hammer, his brother looked like shit (in Jeremiah’s humble opinion). Jerome’s mutilated face had only gotten harder to look at, and he’d made the terrible mistake of shaving half his hair. Black and white stripes definitely didn’t suit him. Nor did the ridiculous gloves he’d chosen to wear for the occasion. 

And he was looking at Bruce like he wanted to devour him. But Bruce didn’t even seem scared, he just seemed angry. About what, exactly, Jeremiah couldn’t tell. The footage had no audio. The entire scenario screamed danger, and he just wanted Bruce to run out of there as fast as he could. Why the hell was he here? 

_ He ignored your warning, and now he’s getting what he deserves,  _ a cold voice tugged at the back of his mind. Jeremiah ignored the comment, and instead ordered Strange, “You need to get him out of there, now! Jerome could kill him!”

“Oh, Jerome won’t kill him,” Strange replied. “That would be rather off script, you see. Even if he knew that  _ you _ were here, I highly doubt he’d come after you.”

“Why not?”

“You know how much he likes to put on a show. Murdering you both here would be utterly boring, as far as he’s concerned. Not to mention, then all of the press would go to Arkham rather than to himself, and he’d just end right back up in solitary confinement. No, he’ll stick to his original plan.”

Despite the confusion Strange’s explanation created, Jeremiah couldn’t tear his gaze away from the monitor. Bruce had somehow stepped even closer to Jerome. A moment later, Bruce’s face fell. His brother must have said something. But what? Jerome was grinning now; he was clearly taunting Bruce. A sinister look spread across his brother’s face and Bruce took a step back. Good. Except, less good, because now Jerome was brandishing his hammer proudly before darting across the room to knock on a pair of cell doors. Jeremiah tried to lean forward in his chair, but the tightening around his chest reminded him he was heavily restrained. 

He watched in morbid rapture as Bruce slid his hand along the wall behind him, stopping when his fingers curled around one of the red lights that’d come on. Then his hand jerked, and suddenly the light was in pieces. What sort of plan was this? Bruce gathered the pieces and struck the hand Jerome gripped his hammer in. The weapon hit the ground and Bruce flung another piece of glass, but his brother just frowned at him critically. Jeremiah silently agreed- the plan was rather poor. But his feeling of dread returned when one of the cell doors opened, revealing the sociopath he’d had the pleasure of meeting earlier that morning. 

Whatever Tetch said caused Jerome to whirl around in anger. In fact, it was probably about him. He’d just talked with Tetch not too long ago, after all. And then Jerome turned on Bruce again, who held up a cell phone. Wait. That wasn’t just any cell phone. That was  _ his _ cell phone. Why did Bruce have his phone? The only person who could be calling him was Ecco, and it looked as if all three of them were listening to whatever she had to say. Jeremiah begged Bruce again to just come to his senses and flee, because Jerome grew more livid by the second. When Jerome brought his hammer down on Bruce’s wrist, he yelled, pulling at his restraints, “Let me out! That’s enough!” Strange just smiled serenely. To Bruce’s credit, he didn’t show any signs of pain. He just spat something at Jerome who’d stopped grinning awhile ago. The look his brother gave Bruce next made Jeremiah blood boil, and he’d never had such a strong urge to eviscerate another human being.

 And then the second cell opened, and a cloaked boy passed Jerome a canister full of  _ something.  _ Jeremiah’s recent experience with unwanted drugs made him want to scream at Bruce to leave. His instincts were right; Jerome released the contents of the can, and didn’t even stick around to watch as Bruce ran for his life, enveloped by a noxious haze. Jerome had disappeared from the monitor’s view, but Jeremiah could still see as Bruce collapsed to the ground, coughing in an attempt to free his lungs of the chemicals settling in them. Jeremiah sought Strange’s gaze, accusing, “He’s killing him. You promised he wouldn’t kill him.” The calmness of his own voice surprised him.

The screen went dark. “Please restrain yourself, Jeremiah. I told you Jerome would not kill Bruce Wayne. I’m a man of my word. Bruce will not die.”

Jeremiah was breathing heavily, barely able to contain his fury. “You’re just standing by and watching as-”

“Isn’t that what _you’re_ doing?” Nigaff injected.

“No,” Jeremiah spat venomously. “I’m being forced to witness as my psychotic brother tortures the only person I’ve ever truly cared about.”

Strange stepped closer to him, peering down through his glasses. “If I were to let you go now, what would you do?”

The answer was obvious. “Find Bruce and make sure he’s okay.”

“And after that?”

Jeremiah’s eyes flicked up, meeting the doctor’s. “Hunt down Jerome.”

“And then what would you do?” Strange asked, tense with something almost like excitement.

“Kill him.”

Jeremiah wasn’t sure where the words came from. They weren’t his. They  _ couldn’t _ be his. His own shock must’ve been plain on his face, because Strange chuckled.

“That’s a rather drastic consequence, don’t you think?”

How desperately he wanted to agree with the doctor. And yet the words that came out of his mouth again felt as though they’d missed some sort of check. “It’s the most rational consequence.” Why? He was no longer under the serum’s influence.

Biting his tongue, he shook his head, trying to convey that he didn’t mean what he was saying. But Strange didn’t accept his recount, nor did Nigaff, who pressed, “What led you to that conclusion?”

Jeremiah shook his head again. Then the urge to elaborate gripped him like a vice. “Jerome is a murderer. A madman. He’s a threat not only to Bruce, or myself, but to Gotham. Eliminating him from the city, from the world, even, would save the most lives in the long run. If skillfully done, the execution would be almost humane.”

“And are you prepared to carry out that execution?” Strange quirked an eyebrow, drawing out his words.

“No. No, I’m not like him. I’m not a murderer,” Jeremiah vehemently denied, trying to shake the doubts mounting in his mind.

“Are you certain?” Nigaff asked.

A pause. Then, “No.”

Strange broke into a satisfied smile. “That’s what we like to hear, Jeremiah. I think we’ve made considerable progress today, your psyche is certainly showing signs of rapid development.”

Jeremiah didn’t want to know what that meant. His mind had been invaded, his words ripped apart. He was done. He just wanted to find Bruce. “Then let me go.”

The doctor shook his head, patient smirk still in place. “Oh, no, I’m afraid not. You should remain here for awhile longer, to ensure today’s improvements are cemented. Otherwise, you may become confused and unbalanced, which could prove to be very dangerous. I advise you take a pleasant rest for a few hours, let’s say, ten or so. Dr. Nigaff will return to release you once we’re certain everything has gone accordingly.” Jeremiah opened his mouth to protest,  _ he didn’t feel like anything was wrong, _ but Strange swiftly cut him off. “This is for your own benefit, Mr. Valeska. Believe me, the consequences of exerting yourself now with all three serums still in your system would be...drastic, to say the least. No, remaining here would be the best thing for you.”

Strange motioned a finger, and Nigaff pulled the monitor off the platform, effectively disappearing along with it.

“Where?” Jeremiah gasped, remembering why he had come in the first place. “Where are you going? We had a deal. A promise.”

The psychiatrist turned back to him, eyes gleaming cruelly. “Your hydrogen atoms.”

“What?” he blinked.

“Your hydrogen atoms. Your quantum number is incorrect. Lower it.”

Jeremiah frowned, momentarily distracted. “That can’t be right. I’ve triple-checked the quantized electrons.”

“Your electrons are too distanced from the nuclei because your quantum number is too high. It’s causing the atoms to become unstable the farther they get from the nucleus, which in turn prompts your eventual brush with nuclear fission.”

“But that’s...that’s too simple.”

Strange turned his back to him, hands clasped at the base of his spine. “You asked for my advice. I’m giving it. Whether or not you take it means absolutely nothing to me. Good day, Mr. Valeska.”

And before Jeremiah knew it, he was alone in the musty basement with only the flaking paint to keep him company. He wanted to scream, to bash his skull against the chair he sat upon, but the restraints wouldn’t even allow for that much movement. This could not possibly have gone worse. What an idiot he’s been. And now Bruce is in danger because of him, because he demanded a stupid solution to his even more idiotic problem. Hydrogen atoms? Ridiculous. How could he have overlooked something so simple? Restoring them to a balanced state would take far more work than the issue deserved. If he had been more careful when drawing up his initial chemical composition equations, he wouldn’t be here now. Overestimating his original quantum number...he knew he should’ve left it at three for stability, at least during the conceptual prototype stage.

_ Listen to yourself,  _ that snarky voice in his head commented.  _ Compromised by two  _ liberal-arts scientists,  _ of all people, and you’re sitting here fretting about your precious prototype while the “only person you truly care for” is passed out in the maximum-security ward of an insane asylum. I knew you were selfish, but this is laughable. Pathetic, truly. _

“I’d rather that than tear my lips to shreds, chewing through them while I envision all the ways those maniacs could hurt Bruce in his state,” Jeremiah snapped aloud. Then he rolled his eyes. This was absurd. He was talking back to his own thoughts. But a part of him wondered if they really were his thoughts. They didn’t sound like his. Bitterly, he noted,  _ If the patients aren’t really insane when they’re admitted, they’ll certainly go that way in a couple of hours.  _

Jeremiah closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. He knew neither doctor would come back, no matter how much he yelled or struggled. They would simply mock his efforts. But being alone with his own head became a worse idea the longer he had to sit with it. He just wanted to fall asleep and wake up back at the bunker, Bruce in his arms, as if this morning had never happened. And, he was starting to feel...off. The thing that concerned him the most about his own predicament was the fact that he had no idea what was in the various concoctions the two psychiatrists had administered. Pharmaceuticals were never really his thing, and any guesses he had towards the ingredients were purely speculation. Based on his hypervigilant reactions but sluggish comprehension, he assumed at least one of the serums contained some form of ephedrine. The way his inhibitions had been muted led him to believe the second serum must’ve had a cholinergic receptor stimulant, or a similar potent antidepressant. The serum they’d given to alleviate the effects of the second therefore had to contain an anticholinergic stimulant, but the already primed dopamine receptors coupled with his affected adenylyl cyclase would boost the effects of the ephedrine in the first serum. And now Jeremiah realized why any activity on his part could be dangerous. Ephedrine was most commonly used in cold medicines, in small doses that is. However, ephedrine also happened to be the central ingredient in methamphetamine, but in far larger amounts. And since isolated ephedrine moved much faster through open dopamine receptors, the effects of the stimulant were precariously potent. If Jeremiah’s brain were to try and send too many kinetic signals throughout his body, his blood pressure would increase, spreading the cholinergic stimulants through his bloodstream, which acted as agents of psychosis.

In short, if he moved, the stimulants’ effects could be permanent.

 

…

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

His eyelids fluttered, the darkness behind them stabbed through with flashes of stark-white light. Bruce groaned, stomach roiling, head pounding.

“Bruce,” a concerned voice whispered. He just released another pained moan, rolling on his side. “Bruce!” the same voice called, sharper this time.

Heaving a sigh, he opened his eyes. The sterile interior of Gotham General filled his vision. And hovering over him was, of course, Alfred. Returning to lay on his back, he mumbled, “How did I get here?”

“Oh, thank goodness you’re alright,” his guardian sighed in relief, leaning back to give him some space.

“‘Alright’ might be a bit of an overstatement.” His stomach lurched as he spoke, and he made frantic hand gestures. Getting the point, Alfred passed him a trash bin into which he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach. Coughing, he set the bin back down beside the hospital bed. 

“Well, yes, Master B, I’d assume so, seeing as Detective Gordon found you seizing on the floor of Arkham Asylum.”

Bruce managed to pull himself up into a sitting position, IV drip tugging at his arm. “Detective Gordon? Is he here?”

“Yes, he’s just outside. But you oughta let the nurses have a proper look at you first, don’t you think?”

He shook his head. “Never mind that. It can wait. Please ask Detective Gordon to come in.”

“If you’re sure, Master Bruce…” Alfred trailed off, striding over to the door.

“Wait, Alfred,” Bruce called.

His guardian turned. “Yes?”

“Is...is Detective Gordon my only visitor?”

Alfred frowned. “Yes, sir. Were you expecting someone else? I doubt Miss Kyle knows you’re here.”

Bruce bit his cheek. “No, I wasn’t. And...I was the only person brought out of Arkham?”

“You’ll have to ask Detective Gordon that.” Alfred then opened the door, exchanging a few words with whoever stood outside, before admitting James Gordon. Both men approached Bruce’s bedside. Jim’s face was grimly set, as if something terrible had transpired. Wait. Oh  _ fuck, _ he’d been so caught up in wondering where the hell Jeremiah was that he hadn’t even paused to remember the three escapees who’d ambushed him in the ward. Of course Jim looked frustrated; three maximum security sociopaths, maybe more even, are now on the streets of the city he’s supposed to protect, but instead he’s standing bedside of the idiot teenager who was found at the scene of the breakout.

Nonetheless, Jim asked him kindly, “How’re you doing, Bruce?”

“A bit queasy, but I feel fine besides that. I’m sorry for any trouble I may have caused you, if you need to return to the force, please do so.”

Jim just nodded. “I take it you know what the situation is, then?”

“I’m aware that Jerome Valeska, Jervis Tetch, and Jonathan Crane broke out of Arkham while I was there, which is why I’m confused as to why you’re here. I don’t want to pull you from your work.”

The detective shifted his feet, uneasy. “I  _ am  _ working.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Bruce, you were found unconscious in Arkham’s maximum security ward. You were there when all three convicts escaped. And as much as I don’t like it, that either makes you a witness or an accessory.”

Realization dawned on him. “You’re here to question me.”

Alfred rose from the chair he’d settled himself in, indignant. “Now wait just a minute, detective! Bruce had nothing to do with the escape of those maniacs!”

Jim sighed. “That’s what I think too, but what I think doesn’t matter. This is the procedure I have to follow. And if his being at Arkham really is unrelated like you say, then he has nothing to worry about. I just need a statement.”

His butler stepped towards Jim, practically bristling. “That’s a load of bollocks, and you know it-”

“Alfred, that’s enough.” Bruce cut in sternly. He glanced up at the detective. “I’ll gladly provide you with any information you need.”

“Thanks, Bruce. I’m sorry, I wish-” Jim stopped speaking, however, when the door opened again. When he realized it was just a nurse, though, his tense shoulders visibly relaxed.

The woman smiled gently at Bruce, and nodded to the two men in the room. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, I just need to check Mr. Wayne’s vitals and verify that everything is stable.”

“It’s not a problem, ma’am,” Jim replied, stepping away from his bedside to give her room to work. Alfred reluctantly followed suit.

“So, Mr. Wayne,” the nurse addressed him, reading off a clipboard. “You got some nasty chemicals in your system. Mostly knockout drugs, but some pretty obscure hallucinogens crept in there as well. Our doctors managed to flush most of them out, but you might get hit with waves of nausea for a few hours. That’s just your body rejecting the rest of the foreign substances, so I’d let that take its course. Other than that, however, you’re free to leave as soon as your blood samples are processed.”

“And how long will that be, miss?” Alfred inquired politely.

“Half an hour at most,” she smiled before returning her attention to Bruce. “I advise you stay out of Wayne Enterprises labs for the time being, though.”

Figuring that was the story Alfred told her, Bruce simply returned her smile. “I think that’s probably for the best. Thank you.” The nurse nodded, detached his IV for him, and headed out the door.

A vibrating sound came from Jim’s pocket. Fishing out his phone, he answered, “Harvey. Any news?” A moment of silence, then, “I’m on my way.” The detective looked apologetically at Bruce. “I hate to do this to you, Bruce, but I’m going to need you to meet me at the station as soon as you’re released. Someone’s just spotted Professor Pyg near the midtown festival.”

Bruce nodded. “I understand. But, may I ask you one question before you go?”

He could tell Jim was itching to leave, but he responded anyway, “Of course.”

“Was Jeremiah Valeska recovered from Arkham?”

Jim let out a sigh. “No. But when we watched the security footage, we spotted him several times. We’ve been trying to track him down, as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“He left. Was dragged out, really, by a woman we haven’t been able to identify. He was gone long before we found you.”

Anxiety rooted itself in his stomach. The urge to vomit returned, but he fought it down this time. “I see, thank you.”

Jim gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

He nodded again. “Stay safe, detective.”

Once Jim had left the room, Alfred gave him a skeptical look. “I take it you didn’t find Jeremiah, then.”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have ended up in the hospital.” Bruce wasn’t quite sure why the two equated in his mind, he just felt like if he had been with Jeremiah, things would’ve turned out better. “I think I know what happened, or at least how he got out.”

“Well, Jim just went and bloody told you, now, didn’t he? ‘Course you know.” Alfred sounded more on edge than usual, probably owing to the fact that Bruce had almost died yet again.

“No, I mean who took him.”

“Oh,” his guardian said, momentarily put off. “Go on then.”

Bruce swung his legs over the edge of the bed, tired of feeling delicate. “Jeremiah left his phone, and I had it. While I was in Arkham, his assistant called him. I told her where we were, and I think she must’ve listened. And since Jeremiah is her priority, she got him out first. From what Jim said, she dragged him, so he was most likely unconscious. I assume she wanted to keep Jeremiah’s identity as secret as possible, so she submitted an anonymous tip to the GCPD, telling them where I was. They were probably already getting calls about the breakout, making a trip to Arkham necessary anyways.”

“That’s quite a lot of assumptions, Master Bruce,” Alfred reminded him.

“I know. Which is why I’ll ask Detective Gordon if they received an anonymous call when I see him later.”

The same nurse poked her head in the room again to let him know he was cleared and good to go. Thanking her, he collected his things and made his way out of Gotham General, Alfred walking close behind him.

“Hungry, sir?” he asked when they approached Alfred’s Avanti, which reminded him-

“My car is still at Arkham!” Bruce had become rather attached to the vehicle, and didn’t like the thought of it being left alone at an insane asylum that was currently under investigation.

Alfred shook his head, smiling. “I asked Mr. Fox to drive it to the manor, and took him back for his own vehicle while waiting for news on your condition. He practically jumped at the opportunity.”

Relief flooded through him. He was still worried about Jeremiah, but if his assumptions were correct, he was safe, at the very least. Besides, it’s not like Bruce could call him. He still had both of their cell phones stowed in his jacket pocket. Well,  _ Jeremiah’s jacket pocket,  _ but still. He’d almost forgotten he’d stolen his clothes this morning, but he hadn’t really had other options seeing as his own were still filthy. 

Ideally, he’d be tracking down Jerome Valeska by now, since he was partially responsible for his escape, but he knew that wouldn’t fly with Alfred at the moment, and he had to be around for Jim to question. So for now, he set his worry aside. As far aside as his worrying mind would let him.

“So,” Alfred prompted him again. “Food, sir?”

Bruce thought about it, then answered, “That diner near the station works just fine.”

His guardian nodded and got in the Avanti, Bruce doing the same. Checking the dash, he realized just how late it was. He’d entered Arkham around eight’o’clock this morning. It was now 5:22. The afternoon had slipped away from him, the loss of time made the urge to be doing something grip him again, but he tried to shake it off. All he could do was wait for the interrogation, and hope Jim’s investigation went smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remind me to never delve into chemistry again. Anyways, several more players have entered the game, and things are about to get pretty hectic. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Feel free to leave any comments or criticisms, they're a wonderful motivator to continue writing. Thanks for reading!


	13. Orange Sunshine

_ (Bruce’s POV) _

Bruce had just settled in a vacant desk at the GCPD when James Gordon strode through the doors, face grim. He was closely followed by a chatter of reporters and uniformed officers, but he paid them no mind. Instead he swept up the staircase to the captain’s office, ducking inside. The detective’s expression coupled with the press’ cries could only mean one thing: the excursion to capture the Pyg clearly didn’t go to plan. At least he was unharmed, but the two stretchers that pushed through the crowd told a different story. 

Alfred had left Bruce here upon his request, albeit rather reluctantly. But this was something he needed to do alone, without his guardian breathing down his neck. Besides, over an early dinner he’d had time to think. He still felt in some way responsible for the Arkham breakout- he should’ve done something to prevent it. And for Jerome Valeska, in particular. Being at the police station gave him a perfect opportunity to get his hands on Jerome’s file. He needed to figure out what his motive was, but he had no grounds to stand on. Just blind guesses based on what he’d been told in Arkham. All he knew was that Jerome’s plan had something to do with himself and Jeremiah, but what exactly? It must be bigger than that, it always was with him.

A tap on the shoulder alerted him to the person standing behind him. Bruce spun around. “Detective Bullock! My apologies, I was just wondering what had transpired.”

Harvey’s face was similarly dour. “Nothin’ good, kid, I can tell you that. Look, the new captain’s a little preoccupied with the Pyg crisis, so I’ll be escorting you to the back.” Bruce detected a hint of bitterness in the detective’s voice, but decided not to press.

Instead, all he said was, “I wasn’t aware that Jim had been promoted. I’ll have to offer him my congratulations.”

Harvey responded, “Yeah, you do that. C’mon, I don’t have the time to sit around here and chat. We’ve got dozens of loonies on the loose, and we’re no closer to catching ‘em than earlier. So let’s just get this over with so you can go home and I can get back to the job.”

Bruce wasn’t going to argue; he’d like this done sooner rather than later as well. So he followed Harvey through the station, past the medical examiner’s office towards the interrogation rooms. He tried to make small talk as they went. “You said there were dozens of escapees?”

“Yeah. Valeska and his goons took advantage of the technical issue Arkham was having to free every violent criminal holed up in that place. We’ve caught some of ‘em, you probably saw ‘em in the holding cells, but not nearly enough.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, detective-”

Harvey snorted. “It’s not every day a suspect walks in here asking to ‘help.’ Honestly kid, the best thing you can do right now is deliver your statement and lay low. No one in their right mind thinks you had anything to do with the breakout, so just keep your head down and stay clean, alright? It’s this one.” The detective held a plain metal door open, which Bruce entered through swiftly.

He took a seat at the similarly stark table, Harvey sitting opposite him. Being here brought back memories -fuzzy, painful memories- but still memories. Bruce suppressed them, instead focusing on the audio recorder Harvey had set up as well as a document the detective had pulled out.

“Do I need to read you your rights, or-”

“I think I’ve got it, detective,” Bruce tried to decline as politely as possible. He didn’t want to feel like a criminal.

“Good, I get tired of it anyways. Lucky for you, you’re still underage, and the charges for a minor in this situation are easily dropped if we just chalk it up to wrong place, wrong time, yeah?”

Bruce frowned. “Well, that’s what happened. You’re speaking as if I were somehow explicitly involved.”

Harvey put his hands up in defense. “I’m just tellin’ you what you need to know before we get started. I’m trying to do you a favor here. You ready, then?”

He nodded.

The detective reached over and pressed the record button on the audio device. “Detective Harvey Bullock, badge number 441, assigned to the interview of Bruce Wayne in relation to the escape of Arkham Asylum convicts, called in at exactly 8:52 on the morning of the third. State your name and date of birth.”

“Bruce Wayne, born on the 19th of February, 2002.”

Harvey relaxed in his seat, preserving eye contact. Bruce could tell he was trying to put him at ease, but there really was no need. He hadn’t been involved, he knew that. And as much as he hated to think this, his lawyers could have him out of any legal trouble faster than Harvey reached for his flask.

“Mr. Wayne, do you know why you’ve been brought in this evening?”

“Yes.” But Bruce didn’t elaborate, waiting to see exactly which issue the police were focusing on.

“So you admit to being at the scene of the breakout?”

“Of course. The police found me unconscious outside the cells of two high-profile escapees. I’m very thankful for their rescue.” Bruce had contemplated his options. Playing the victim card couldn’t hurt.

Hands clasped on the table, Harvey asked, “Why were you in Arkham this morning?”

Bruce had spent a lot of time thinking about how he should answer this question. He’d concocted possible stories and excuses, many of them highly believable and easily verified. But if it were somehow uncovered that he was lying, the consequences for both him and Jeremiah would be far more severe. And unfortunately, Jeremiah had been caught on tape as well, escaping the scene before he could be questioned by the police, which made him infinitely more suspicious. Not to mention he was Jerome Valeska’s mystery twin brother, and being at Arkham on the day his brother broke out didn’t bode well for him. So all Bruce could hope to do was clear his name a bit by presenting Jeremiah’s side of the story for him, meaning he would have to tell the truth. As much of it as necessary, that is.

“Two reasons, really. Wayne Enterprises is the company that manufactured Arkham’s malfunctioning doors. Therefore, seeing the issue in person was a responsibility that fell on my shoulders. I also needed to return something to Jeremiah Valeska, who had been called in to inspect the problem.” Bruce maintained a clear gaze as he spoke, voice steady and credible.

“So you don’t find it suspicious that Jerome Valeska’s twin brother, who just magically appeared out of thin air a couple weeks ago, mind you, was contacted to appear at the asylum on the morning his brother chose to stage a mass-breakout?”

“I find it incredibly coincidental,” Bruce remarked cooly. “What I find more suspicious is the fact that the same member of my company who’s been reporting to me about a missing device that has the ability to unlock said doors is currently the acting director of Arkham Asylum. The acting director who has  _ also  _ managed to go missing in the past few hours.”

Harvey leaned forward. “Are you talkin’ about Charles Nigaff?”

“Yes, detective.”

“We brought him in already. He’s clean.”

Bruce’s heart dropped, but he ignored the blow to his accusation. “And did you ask him about the whereabouts of Jeremiah Valeska? After all, he was in Nigaff’s company when the lockdown went into effect.”

“Yeah.” Harvey was looking at him with pity. “He claimed that Jeremiah Valeska violently assaulted him during the breakout when they went to examine the signals, but Nigaff managed to knock him unconscious with one of Jeremiah’s wrenches. Nigaff hid out in the basement, waiting for the lockdown to let up. He watched Jeremiah get pulled out by that lady.”

He refused to take that explanation as the truth. “And did Nigaff present any evidence of this bold accusation to the GCPD?”

Harvey was becoming increasingly frustrated with him. “Nothing concrete, but unless Jeremiah Valeska chooses to come in here and submit his own statement in his defense, the acting director’s word stands! Until then, my officers are going to assume he was involved, and if he’s spotted on the streets, he  _ will _ be apprehended. Who’s side are you on?”

Bruce knew the question was bait. “I’m on the side of justice, and fairness. I think it’s rather hypocritical of the department to cast Mr. Valeska in the role of accomplice simply because of his relation to Jerome Valeska when several standing officers haven’t even viewed the evidence against that theory. And, in presenting evidence of my own, it’s highly unlikely, in fact,  _ near impossible, _ that Jeremiah could be involved with his brother’s escape.”

“And why is that?” Harvey’s frustration hadn’t died down completely, but a thin element of curiosity entered his voice.

“Because Jeremiah is terrified of the idea of Jerome escaping and finding him. It’s his worst nightmare, which makes me strongly doubt he’d help bring it to fruition. I think one of your so-called witnesses is lying to you, Detective Bullock, and I advise you find out who before your close-minded attitude lands the citizens of Gotham in even more danger.”

Harvey gaped at him, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to form a response. Perhaps Bruce had been too forward, but he’d needed the detective to focus on  _ his _ words, not those of Charles Nigaff.

“It’s not really your place to advise me to do anything, Mr. Wayne,” Harvey reprimanded sharply, brows raised.

Bruce bowed his head. “You’re absolutely right, detective, I spoke out of turn. Forgive me. But I do hope you take my words into consideration when continuing your investigation.”

Not caring to dignify his warning with a response, Harvey said gruffly, “Let’s just set that aside for now. You’re here to defend yourself, not Jeremiah Valeska.”

“Jeremiah isn’t here to defend himself, so someone has to,” Bruce shot back.

A hand slammed down on the table, making the audio recorder jump. “And who’s fault is that? If Jeremiah Valeska was so damn concerned about clearing his name, he’d be here! And since you two are so buddy-buddy, why don’t you tell me where he is now?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce answered unflinchingly.

“You don’t know?” Harvey repeated, getting to his feet. This interview was quickly becoming an interrogation. Bruce hadn’t meant for it to go this direction. He needed to get his temper under control, but Harvey’s methods were ineffective, and he was done wasting his time. He needed to get Jerome’s file, and he needed to find Jeremiah.

“No, unfortunately, I don’t.” Bruce absolutely had a guess, but he wasn’t about to expose Jeremiah’s only safe haven.

“Then until Jeremiah hands himself over, you’re not doin’ him any favors by runnin’ your mouth.”

Bruce refused to lose his temper again. “I think that’s fair. Please, continue.”

Harvey visibly relaxed, resuming his seat. “Let’s do that.” He stared down at the document in front of him before asking, “So how did you end up on the floor of Arkham’s maximum security ward?”

“I was passing through that ward, the men’s ward, with my employee-escort when the first emergency announcement came over the intercom. She decided it was safest to leave me in the care of the guard who still remained in the ward. I don’t blame her for her decision in the slightest, in fact, I think her dedication to her job ought to be commended. Regardless, the guard I’d been told to wait with was killed by Jerome Valeska when the asylum went into lockdown. I tried to distract Jerome, keep him occupied until someone could send help, but it didn’t work. Two of his accomplices, Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane, were also in the ward. Crane rendered me unconscious with some sort of knockout gas. I have the hospital records to support my account, if necessary. And after that, I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t able to find Jeremiah before the asylum went on lockdown, so I can’t offer evidence as to what happened to him either.”

“So you were just a victim of circumstance?” Harvey pressed. Bruce could tell this was his exit question, and was thankful for the detective.

“Yes, sir. I think the footage you’ve recovered from Arkham verifies this, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to give my statement in regards to the breakout. Thank you.”

Harvey took that as his conclusion, and switched off the audio recorder. Then he gave Bruce a long, hard look.

“What?”

“You’re a pain in the ass, y’know that?”

Bruce grinned, animosity already forgotten. “I’ve heard that once or twice, yes. Is that all you need from me?”

The detective slid the document towards him. “Just fill this out and you’re good to go. We don’t have any grounds to keep you, and you were right when you said all the evidence we need is on those tapes. But that stuff about Jeremiah Valeska could get you in trouble if people think you’re close.”

Frowning, he filled in the first few lines of the form. “We’re not  _ that _ close. We’re...friends, I guess.”

“All I’m sayin’ is that some of that stuff could be taken outta context, which would put you in a world of hurt.”

Bruce signed the bottom of the document. “Jeremiah is innocent, and I’ll gladly stand by that in a court of law.” He rose from his chair, extending his hand. “Thank you for your time, detective.”

Harvey grasped his outstretched palm, shaking it twice. “Always available for Bruce Wayne. Not to mention Jim would have my head if I let one of those uniforms get a crack at ya. I’ll walk you out front, yeah?”

Accepting the gesture, Bruce followed Harvey back into the heart of the department. The detective soon disappeared, swept away by another frazzled officer. One glance up at the captain’s office confirmed that Jim had vacated it. Now was his chance.

He scaled the staircase, doing his best to look like he was supposed to be there. It wasn’t that far-fetched; he spent plenty of time coming in and out of the precinct, so his appearance wasn’t all that worrisome to the other officers. Besides, most of them were out on the streets, hunting down the Arkham escapees. Unfortunately for him, not  _ all _ of the officers had left.

“Bruce Wayne?” a perplexed voice inquired from behind him.

Turning, Bruce smiled. “Detective Harper.”

Harper scrutinized him. “What are you doing here?”

He scoured his mind for an excuse. “Detective, er, I mean, Captain Gordon asked me to meet him here when I finished giving my statement. I noticed that he’s out, however. I can come back at another time, if you think what he wants isn’t urgent.”

She glanced behind her, presumably looking for Jim. “He said to meet him in his office?”

“Yes, detective.”

She contemplated his words for a moment before sighing. “I’ll let you in. You can wait for him there.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, following her into the captain’s office.

Harper nodded towards the seat nearest them. “Just sit there. I doubt I need to tell you this, but try not to touch anything, alright?”

“Of course.” He took the seat she indicated and busied himself adjusting the collar of the shirt he’d borrowed from Jeremiah. Bruce waited a moment after the door clicked shut; he didn’t want to give Harper any reason to be suspicious of him. Barely glancing back, he verified that the outer balcony had cleared. Slowly, he sauntered his way over to the files as if he were just looking around out of boredom. Leaning against a filing cabinet, he carefully opened the one beside it, revealing casefiles M-Q. Not quite. He’d have to search the bottom drawer. When was Jim actually supposed to return? Bruce needed to hurry. He kneeled down, quickly combing the last drawer. T, U, ah there it is, V. 

The name stood out like a sore thumb; the file looked as though it’d been handled multiple times. Jerome’s name was smudged. How was he going to get it out though? 

Bruce glanced around the office for answers, and one finally came when he caught his reflection in a hanging photo. Jeremiah’s shirt was still a bit big on him, baggy, even. Thinking quickly, he turned away from the door and lifted the shirt, tucking the end of the file in the waistband of Jeremiah’s jeans, which were luckily held up by a belt. Dropping the shirt, he examined his reflection again. Perfect. The bagginess of the fabric hid the folder from view.

He was just getting ready to leave when his phone rang. Bruce didn’t recognize the number, but answered regardless.

“Hello?”

A cool female voice responded, “I’m calling for Bruce Wayne.”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Sofia Falcone. I’m simply examining the guest list for this evening. You never RSVP’d; my staff need to know whether or not we should set a place for you at the dinner table. Although, it would be quite a shame if you didn’t come. You’re the patron of the event, after all.”

Bruce’s stomach dropped. The children’s benefit was tonight. He knew Sofia was quick on the draw, but he hadn’t expected her to be  _ that _ quick. They’d only discussed the event not a night prior. But of course, if anyone could organize such a thing so rapidly, it would be Sofia Falcone. She clearly didn’t want to owe him anything. He’d been so caught up in the day’s events that he hadn’t even thought about his conversation with her. There was no way he’d miss it, but he’d really wanted Jeremiah to accompany him. But with the entire police department looking for him, he couldn’t risk being in the public eye. Then Bruce had a thought...Jeremiah couldn’t risk being seen, but what if he didn’t look like Jeremiah Valeska? What if he went as someone else entirely? He made up his mind right then and there. Now all that was left to do was find and convince Jeremiah to come. Easier said than done. He  _ has _ had quite the day.

“Mr. Wayne?” Sofia prompted, sounding impatient.

“Yes, yes, my apologies Miss Falcone. I will be attending tonight’s benefit, and I will be accompanied by a guest.” Bruce supposed if he couldn’t convince Jeremiah to come, Alfred could always join him.

“Wonderful. I’ll inform the staff. And the children are looking forward to seeing you again. They’ve put together a performance. The doors will open for guests beginning at 7:30. I’ll see you then, Mr. Wayne.”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Falcone.” Bruce politely waited for her to hang up first. The last thing he needed was to annoy her further with poor manners.

Bruce slipped quietly out of Jim’s office, but was somehow caught by Harper  _ again. _

“Thought you were waiting for Gordon.” It wasn’t a question.

Innocently, he held up his phone. “Change of plans. He’s busy and I have somewhere else I need to be. We decided to meet again later this week.”

The suspicion didn’t leave her dark eyes, but she nodded. “Alright, try not to get into too much trouble, kid.”

“I’ve been hearing that a lot today,” Bruce smiled. He descended the staircase, dialing another number. The line picked up.

“Alfred?”

“Yes, sir. Are you finished at the precinct?”

“Yeah. Could you come get me? I need to get back to the manor, fast.”

“Certainly, I’m right outside.”

 

...

The canvas bag toppled off the front seat as Bruce raced out of Gotham’s city limits. Thanks to Alfred’s experienced maneuvers, he’d made it back to the manor in record time. After throwing on the nearest clean suit and folding the clothes he’d borrowed from Jeremiah, Bruce had hopped in his Mustang and drove far too quickly to the engineer’s hideout, after making a quick pit stop. Soon enough, he pulled into the secluded wood concealing the bunker.

The first thing he noticed was the curious gleam of the security cameras, closely following his movements. Unperturbed, Bruce grabbed the bag off the floor, got out of the Mustang and approached the low concrete building. He knew there was no point in knocking, so he simply waited outside, maintaining eye contact with the camera.

A couple minutes passed. He was beginning to get anxious. Reaching out a hand, he knocked on the door anyway. Nothing could be heard within the bunker, even though Bruce knew he was too high up to hear anything that was happening inside. 

Finally, the door opened, a sharp brown eye peering at him from the narrow crack. Upon seeing him, Ecco widened the gap.

“Bruce.”

A sigh of relief escaped him. If she was here, everything must be okay. “Ecco, thank goodness. I take it you understood what I was trying to tell you in Arkham?”

She shifted on her feet. Her blonde hair was down and unusually disheveled, but she nodded curtly. “Now isn’t an ideal time for visits.”

“Why? What’s happened? Is he alright?”

“He will be.”

Well, that didn’t ease his mind. “Ecco, please, you have to let me see him.”

Ecco raised an eyebrow. “I don’t  _ have  _ to let you do anything. I’m telling you he isn’t ready for visitors, and I think he would appreciate it if you took my advice and waited for our call.”

“At least let him make that decision for himself,” Bruce bristled with indignation. His grip tightened on the bag he was holding. The way she said  _ our _ call irritated him, but he wasn’t about to show it. 

“His condition won’t allow for him to make such decisions, which is why I must make them in his stead with only his health in mind.”  _ Oh sure, his health.  _

“If it’s that bad, then why haven’t you taken him to a hospital?” The way she was describing it made it sound as if he’d been hurt, and badly.

Her gaze leveled with his. “He doesn’t need a hospital, he needs my care. It’s far more reliable than some uneducated man in a white coat, a combination which would most likely make his condition worse.”

Bruce was becoming more anxious about Jeremiah with every word she said. “Please, Ecco. I’ll beg if I have to, just let me see him. At least for a moment.”

“No.” He couldn’t see her smirk, but he heard it in her tone. Even if her petty attitude was annoying, it told him that Jeremiah wasn’t in immediate danger. Ecco cocked her head as if she heard something, drawing Bruce’s attention to the metal earpiece she wore. That must be what routed her orders. “Yes, sir? At the door?” She glanced at him, then lowered her gaze. “Bruce Wayne, sir. I-Yes, he’s here to see you. Understood, but- sir please, the excitement could- Yes, I understand. Of course.” Ecco’s gaze narrowed, staring at Bruce with clear distaste. What a shame, they’d been getting on rather well last night. “Mr. Valeska will see you now,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Really? I thought he was in no condition for visitors?” Hopefully his sarcasm didn’t come across as triumphant as it felt.

Ecco allowed him to enter the bunker, darting ahead of him to lead the way. “It seems I was...he changed his mind.”

Bruce found this difficult to believe, but he also had no desire to argue with her. From the sounds of it, she had saved Jeremiah’s life. Getting in a fight with her about Jeremiah’s health wasn’t going to help anybody, least of all the person in question.

Soon enough, they arrived in the hallway that housed Jeremiah’s bedroom. “Ecco, 101,” she informed the keypad which instantly allowed them admittance. Instead of turning heel and going straight back down the corridor like she did last time, Ecco went in his room first, closely followed by Bruce.

“Bruce Wayne, as requested,” she announced.

Jeremiah, for his part, was nowhere to be found. Bruce looked around the room, but didn’t see a trace of him. Ecco hesitantly called, “Mr. Valeska?”

“A moment, please, Ecco,” a weak voice responded from the restroom. “You can go. Leave Bruce.”

Shooting him a distrustful glare, she spun on her heel as predicted and marched from the room. This is exactly why Bruce hadn’t questioned her; he couldn’t believe any information she offered up. He’d just have to get the answers from Jeremiah himself.

Bruce sat on the edge of Jeremiah’s bed, placing the bag beside him, and idly picked at the frayed ends of his kitschy quilt. From the direction of the bathroom, he could hear the sound of a tap running, and something like hushed murmuring. Was Jeremiah talking to himself? Bruce’s worst fears began circulating in his mind.

But most of this speculation was put to rest as Jeremiah carefully exited the restroom, giving him a small, but warm smile. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” was the first thing Jeremiah said to him, sitting beside Bruce on the bed after a moment’s hesitation.

Gaping in disbelief, Bruce responded, “You’re glad that  _ I’m  _ okay? What about yourself? You just disappeared from Arkham. Are  _ you _ okay? What happened?” He couldn’t stem the flow of questions pouring from him. Bruce raptly shut his mouth. Jeremiah needed space to breath.

He didn’t seem to mind, however, but he did inch almost imperceptibly away from Bruce on the bed. His heart fell at that, but he tried not to take it too personally.

Seeming cautious, Jeremiah probed, “What did the police tell you?” So he knew Bruce had already spoken with the GCPD.

Shrugging, he answered, “Not much. They told me they got footage of Ecco pulling you out of Arkham, but the cameras picked up in a secluded storage area, sort of near the basement entrance.”

“That would make sense. The panel powering Arkham’s doors was in the basement.” Jeremiah still wasn’t offering anything up.

Frowning, Bruce asked, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“There’s not much to tell. One of the escaped patients crept up behind me while I was examining the wiring. He punched me,” Jeremiah gestured to his bruised jaw, “and knocked me out. I presume he did the same to Dr. Nigaff. Ecco must’ve picked me up there. She said you told her where we were.”

Bruce’s gaze flickered back and forth between Jeremiah’s eyes, searching them. All he could read was uneasiness. Something was off. Jeremiah was lying to him. Those same fears from earlier echoed in his head, goaded on by Harvey’s accusations.

“But that’s not what happened, is it?” Bruce said softly.

Jeremiah met his gaze unflinchingly. “Have I ever lied to you?”

“I wouldn’t know, would I?”

Eyes darkening, Jeremiah said, “I’ve told you all I know, Bruce. I’d rather just move on from it. I don’t think it’s worth placing that much importance on.”

Again, this struck him as odd. Jeremiah viewed everything like a puzzle, a challenge. If something like this happened, Bruce would expect him to tackle it with theories, intense speculation, and precise detail-recall. Yet he’s done none of that. But even more than striking him as odd, the statement made Bruce angry. In fact, he was furious. Jeremiah had no idea how much danger he was in.

“You don’t think it’s worth placing that much importance on?” he repeated, holding Jeremiah’s stare. “Well, I’d start rethinking, because the GCPD is placing a hell of a lot of importance on it. After all, Charles Nigaff beat you to the eye witness account. And he’s informed the entire precinct that  _ you _ brutally assaulted him during the lockdown, presumably aiding your brother in his escape. Nigaff is playing the martyr, the incidental hero who was struck down at the most inopportune moment but came back to salvage the situation. In his depiction, you are every bit the violent lunatic that Jerome is, who’s escaped, by the way, and is presumably hunting you. And Nigaff’s convinced every single officer of this account. You’re  _ wanted, _ Jeremiah. Cops are scouring the streets for any sign of you.” Bruce paused, noticing how stiff Jeremiah had gone. “I want to help you, Miah. But I can’t if you don’t tell me the truth.”

Jeremiah was silent, staring past Bruce, surely analyzing every angle of the situation he’d just presented. Finally, he replied, “I’ve already told you the truth. Please, Bruce. Please believe me.” Even Jeremiah’s eyes were now pleading with him. “I  _ need _ you to believe me. Because if you don’t, I’ve already lost.”

Bruce felt like he’d already lost something much more important. He didn’t believe Jeremiah. And the fact that he’d  _ openly _ lie to Bruce and practically beg for his confidence...it stung like gravel in an open wound. He couldn’t force himself to see truth where there was nothing but dishonesty. But as much as Jeremiah needed Bruce to believe in him, some part of Bruce  _ had _ to believe in Jeremiah, because he found himself stepping around the situation entirely.

“How are you feeling?” he switched the subject abruptly. They could talk about this later. They’d both been through a lot today. Maybe Jeremiah was just in shock. He had to be.

Jeremiah glanced away, breaking the tense eye contact they’d maintained for far too long. “My jaw aches a bit, but other than that, I suffered minimal physical damage. I should be asking you that question. I still don’t know what happened to you.”

“I had a conversation with your brother.”

As per usual, Jeremiah’s reaction wasn’t dramatic. He just nodded numbly. “I figured that might happen. Did he hurt you?”

For the first time since it happened, Bruce recalled his own injuries. He’d completely forgotten his wrist. It didn’t hurt. Yanking up his sleeve, he gave it a once-over before declaring, “He hit my arm but whatever they did to me in Gotham General patched it up. I don’t think it was serious. Oh, and Jonathan Crane knocked me out with some sort of gas, but the doctors expunged that from my system as well.”

Intrigued, Jeremiah asked, “How did they do that? Remove the knockout gas from your system, I mean.”

Thinking about it, Bruce couldn’t remember. He had been unconscious, after all. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

“Huh.” Jeremiah fell silent once more. It felt like miles of unfilled quiet stretched in front of them. The feeling was unfamiliar; it’d never happened to them before.

Finally, Jeremiah shattered it. Nodding towards the space beside them, he asked, “What’s in the bag?”

Bruce pulled it close to him. “I brought your clothes back for you. I’m sorry I borrowed them without permission. And I didn’t have time to wash them. Oh, and I have your phone, too.” He dug through the canvas bag, fishing out the aforementioned items and passing them to Jeremiah.

“You’re all dressed up, as well,” Jeremiah noted. His voice was growing progressively steadier. “What’s the occasion? I highly doubt you put on a suit just to check up on my well-being.”

Bruce self-consciously glanced down at himself. “Oh, right. It honestly slipped my mind, and not for the first time today. Sofia’s children’s benefit is tonight, and I promised her I’d attend. It’ll probably be immensely boring; lots of material people, unnecessarily long speeches, and overpriced food. But I want to go. Not for them, obviously, but for the kids. I want them to feel important and safe. It can be really disheartening for orphans to be surrounded by a bunch of privileged, inattentive adults you know want nothing to do with you, and are just there for the publicity. At the very least, I feel like I can relate to them a bit, and be more approachable than the rest of the patrons. And some of my friends will probably be there, too. Their parents drag them to events like this all the time, or so they complain.”

“All those friends that just like you for the number of zeroes in your bank account and the fact that you used to screw around with them?”

Jeremiah’s words were cutting, but he had a point.

“Yeah, those ones.”

Jeremiah furrowed his brow. “And you’re going alone? I thought I was invited.”

He caught Bruce off guard. “Well, I was  _ going  _ to take you, but then with everything that happened today, I figured it’d be better if you rested.”

Shaking his head adamantly, Jeremiah said, “Actually, I think the worst thing for me right now is being alone with my thoughts.”

Despite the lies he’d told Bruce, his heart ached with sympathy. He was obviously going through a lot, and it wasn’t Bruce’s place to interrogate him. He had to let it go for now. “Are you saying you want to go with me?”

“Please.”

Bruce gave him a soft smile before returning his attention to the bag. “It’s a good thing I went shopping, then.”

Jeremiah peered in as well. “Why’s that?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said the police were searching for any trace of you,” Bruce reminded him, pulling out three boxes different boxes, all of which Jeremiah eyed skeptically.

“I hope you’re kidding about  _ this.” _

Grinning, Bruce got to his feet. “I’m afraid not. Come,” he motioned with his filled arms, “we have lots of work to do, and very little time to do it.”

…

Bruce stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Although Jeremiah had voiced several complaints, and assured Bruce repeatedly that he would look horrendous, Bruce thought he did a pretty damn good job, if he did say so himself. Almost too good, in fact. Jeremiah was practically unrecognizable.

His fiery hair had been colored a temporary black, which Bruce refused to allow gel anywhere near. Instead, he’d taken a round brush to it, pulling out from the top to make it look thick and messy. After that, Bruce used the bottle of foundation he’d bought to cover any distinguishing blemishes, like the cute freckles that littered his nose and cheeks. The shade itself was just a smidge darker than Jeremiah’s own fair skin because Bruce didn’t want the disguise to be obvious. He’d also made Jeremiah put in brown color contacts to mask his beautiful turquoise eyes, which were a dead giveaway. Finally, he’d dragged Jeremiah to his closet and dug out an outfit the engineer deemed “entirely inappropriate for such an event,” as he so happily put it. Bruce insisted that an open black blazer, matching slacks, and a collared maroon shirt were plenty formal. 

“Are you certain I shouldn’t find a tie?” Jeremiah asked for the third time.

“It’s dinner, not the Queen’s funeral,” Bruce said, exasperated with his protests.

“I probably couldn’t find one anyway,” Jeremiah muttered. “I can barely see my own hands.”

“Then how do you know you don’t look stunning?” Bruce retorted.

“I just do!” he burst out.

Bruce rolled his eyes. A weak argument, especially for the likes of Jeremiah Valeska. “Well  _ I _ can see, and I think you look fantastic.”

“Of course  _ you’d  _ say that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you’re the one who dressed me up like a doll. Obviously, you’re going to be a little biased.”

“I try to give you a compliment and all I get are complaints.”

Jeremiah snorted. “That’s not a compliment. That’s self-satisfaction.”

Frustrated, Bruce conceded, “Okay,  _ fine, _ Miah! You look hot! Really hot. Unfairly attractive. Are you happy now?”

Slightly mollified, Jeremiah sniffed, “Perhaps.”  _ Well someone is clearly feeling better. _ Bruce wouldn’t even know what a traumatic day Jeremiah had undergone if he hadn’t been there, too.

“Great. Let’s go then. We’re already about ten minutes late.”

Eyes wide, Jeremiah froze. “We’re  _ late _ because of this nonsense?”

Marching towards the bedroom door, Bruce responded sarcastically, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize guaranteeing your safety was less important than punctuality. Next time I’ll drop you off half an hour early with a sign that reads, ‘Police Discount!” strapped to your chest. Does that sound better?”

“There’s no need to be rude about it,” Jeremiah huffed, following him.

Ignoring his prissy attitude, Bruce continued, “And besides, we’re not actually late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you ever been to an event like this?” Jeremiah shook his head and took the lead after noticing Bruce had no idea where he was going. “Well, in the world of people with far too much money and time, the person who shows up at the scheduled hour, or,  _ god forbid,  _ early, is automatically the most unsophisticated one there. It sends the message that you actually care about other peoples’ time, and that you don’t have enough of your own life to be too busy to show up when you’re supposed to. Compassion and leisure are privileges awarded only to the poor, apparently. It’s sort of like an unspoken rule in high society.”

“That takes being ‘fashionably late’ to an almost masochistic level.”

Bruce nodded. They were nearing the stairs now. “My family never really cared for this rule. In fact, to send the message that it was a silly custom, my parents would insist on being perfectly punctual for everything, down to the last second before the turn of the clock. It was almost obsessive. But people took it seriously, at least for awhile. After all, if the wealthiest family in Gotham thought it was a foolish tradition, there must truly be something wrong with it. And yeah, they made enemies by being too unconventional. Some of the oldest families stopped inviting ours to their events because of things like that. We represented change, something the wealthy, especially those of old money, are typically very afraid of. I still try to uphold my parents’ ideals when it comes to society interactions, but right now, the general disdain for punctuality is working in our favor, so I don’t mind.”

Jeremiah had stopped walking, and instead chose to stand in the middle of the hall staring at him.

“What?” Bruce asked self-consciously.

“You’re real, right?”

Blinking, he repeated, “What?”

“You’re not- you’re actually here, right?”

It was Bruce’s turn to stare. “Of course I am. Miah, are you alright? We don’t have to go tonight if you’re not feeling okay. I can put you right back to bed if you want.”

Jeremiah shook his head. “No, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I- you just amaze me sometimes, I suppose is what I was trying to get at.”

“I... _ amaze _ you? Where’s all this coming from?”

“It catches me off guard sometimes. That I can look to my right and you’re just  _ there. _ Beside me. The week you were gone...I don’t want that to happen again. Does that make sense?”

The words Jeremiah was saying whirled around Bruce, and he was desperately trying to catch a hold of enough to make sense of it all. “I think so. I was afraid I was going to lose you today, you know. I thought my stupidity had gotten you killed. And even if whatever we have started out...unconventionally, to say the least, the thought of it all going up in smoke terrifies me.”

“What  _ do  _ we have?”

His question caused a skip in Bruce’s heart. “We have a chance. A chance to show Gotham that the city isn’t split into ‘good’ and ‘evil,’ but is made up of real people, people who hurt and hate, people who learn and love. And I think...we could be the start of that realization.” Bruce slipped his hand into Jeremiah’s as an unspoken promise. He didn’t know what they were to each other, but with time, he wanted to find out.

Jeremiah seemed to accept his promise, linking his shaking fingers with Bruce’s steady ones. They just had to make it through one little charity event. And then they had all the time in the world to figure out everything else. If only it were ever that simple in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead- sorry, I know this one took a while to come out. I wanted to gather some immediate plot direction before I went off on the next scene, which should be a good one if I play my cards right. Anyways, let me know what you think! Is Jeremiah doing better? Is Bruce right to just put everything on hold? Thanks for your patience and continued support! Feel free to check out my tumblr [@evelynsinkwell](https://evelynsinkwell.tumblr.com/)
> 
> p.s. harvey is still my favorite character to write


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